White Chablis
Introduction:
White Chablis
I heard her come in.
It was late, very late.
I did not go with her.
I wasn’t invited.
She had a date.
With great resolve, she tried her best
To navigate in the black with quiet finesse.
But she was in trouble and nothing she tried
Came close to providing a cover for her pride.
Muy borracho this kitten of mine
As she desperately groped her closet to find.
Once inside she closed the door,
But finding the switch was a hellova chore.
I could hear her muttering as she stumbled about.
Then all went silent, I thought she’d passed out.
But presently, by god, the light came on
And framed the door like ivory neon.
The light went out and the door opened slowly. Coming out of the bright into the pitch of the bedroom, I knew she couldn’t see me. But I could see her. She was still unsteady leaning forward with both arms stretched out feeling for the corner of the bed. It took all I had not to give myself away with a snicker, or worse, a ‘Boo!’
But now I could smell her.
Her fragrance. “Michael.”
Her cigarettes. “Marlboro Ultra-Light 100s.”
Her wine. “White Chablis.”
The most wicked, seductive concoction ever brewed in the infamous name of femme fatale.
In one flowing, seemingly choreographed movement, she silently pulled back the satin sheet and down comforter, slipped in under the covers, and nestled her naked, egg-shell white body deep into the plush of her side of the bed. Then she lay still. Dead-still.
The moment defined “stillness.”
My heart was pounding in my chest. I could feel it throbbing in my neck just below my ears. It accelerated to thunderous in the matter of a few seconds; so much so that I was sure she could feel it; maybe even hear it. But she didn’t move. Her back was to me and her body covered only up to her hip. The slope of her hip down to her waist was anything but gentle. And the rise from there to the crest of her mystical shadowy shoulder was surrealistic beyond conception.
I was hard. Ache-hard.
Hard-ache (noun): the rare, emotional and physical sensation of pain experienced by a male when the torque exerted against his stimulated, blood-sated cock exacerbates itself against the groin muscles and tendons on both sides of his hyper-stimulated testicles.
The mocha colored circumcision of my grossly distended cock had flared to almost twice the diameter of its gothically veined, Promethean shaft. My breathing was becoming heavier and heavier. I could not control it. My cock was flexing itself involuntarily every few seconds as I lay on my back. When it stiffen, it would rhymically raise and lower its swollen head up and down out of the small pool of semen leakage that had filled the recess of my naval to overflowing.
I rolled from my back to my side. I felt the cum run down my waist when my naval decanted its sticky pre-jac onto the bed. My hand started to glide across the champagne satin to caress her when suddenly she moved, rolling over on her back. I was paralyzed. Her breasts. My God, her breasts! Ten thousand dollars worth of exquisite, perfectly matched, voluptuous twins with nipples the size of baby marshmellows crowning each arrogant peak like two natal matriarchs.
I tried to swallow and shot myself in the neck with a full load of hot pre-jac.
I lay stunned beside her. She turned her face toward me and opened her beautiful still eyes; the face of every fantasy I’ve had since I was eleven.
After an ethereal moment in the eternal now, she spoke in that Kathleen Turner to-die-for deep whisper of hers,”‘Hi. . . Did I wake you? “No. . . Did you have a good time?” “Oh, not so much.”
And then, she touched me.
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