There was a moment, and oddly I can’t remember what was going on at the more obviously sexy end of things at the time. It’s funny that something so acute can also be a blur. I know I had just slid a condom over to my man to signal that he should or could fuck the woman I was kissing, and I was watching that, or kissing her breasts, I don’t recall. You moved beside me and started to touch me. So gently and respectfully as you knew I was already in much deeper than I thought I’d be. Stroking my back, my thighs, responding to my consenting moans or squirms, moving to my tummy, my breasts, my hips, my bottom; parts of me untouched by anyone but him for decades…
The softest skin between my thighs, between my legs.
It felt so good.
I felt so good.
Within all the evening's blurred, fragment memories this part is clear, this simple act; just to be touched. You felt entirely different to me; the weight and texture of you, the speed of you, the finger-tip and palm-touch ratio of you. And the differentness of you made me feel new. I could feel the full weight of possibilities and opportunities leaning into me. If merely being stroked could feel so new what other sensations could there be if we opened up to other people?
In retrospect I wish I’d let you stroke me for longer but once the newness door was ajar just a little, I could see through this chink of light into to a new landscape, an undiscovered country that has been hidden inside myself all this time, pristine like fresh snow. I wanted to run straight in. I whispered to my man;
“I want him to fuck me”
and he smiled his yes at me, already deep in the other woman himself, so I asked you to, and you did.