Snowstorm in a Paperweight

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Ass

© 2010, Beth the Pixie

My first story for Literotica. Hope you like it.

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On most occasions recently, Adam is the first to arrive. He’ll check in, make sure there’s a second key for me — the hotels know us by now – put the wine in the mini-bar if it’s white or open the bottle if it’s a red. He’ll then hang up his clothes carefully — he’s very fussy about this – and get into the shower. Sometimes I arrive while he’s still showering. I usually help myself to a glass of wine, undress and then stand and watch as the water runs over his well-muscled body. I love the way it makes his skin shine.

When he steps out of the shower, he’ll always throw a towel around his neck, then hold me and kiss me — which is why I undress first — and take a sip from my glass, before drying himself properly. It’s a little ritual we seem to have fallen into. On the few occasions when I arrive first, he’ll often climb into the shower with me. It seems he has to get that first embrace, before the evening has properly started.

He likes to watch me shower. He says he likes the way that the lather from the shower gel looks like semen on my skin, and it excites him. Well, he’s seen that sight often enough to know.

After we’ve dried ourselves and are each holding a glass, we can start to relax properly. We don’t talk much about our respective days, beyond a perfunctory ‘how was yours?’ and the stock answer ‘oh, the usual hell.’ When we want empathy and emotional support through the trials of everyday life, we turn to our respective spouses. This is about something else.

One of the things I most appreciate — is it wrong to say ‘love’? — about Adam is the way he understands the importance of touch. For men, sex is about getting a cock in a wet hole as soon as possible. What they mostly don’t understand is that for women, touch — just good old skin contact, in almost any form — is a crucial part of making us feel good.

Adam knows this, instinctively it seems. From that first embrace, through the throbbing delirium of orgasmic peaks — and those peaks can get pretty Himalayan — to the luxurious afterglow and sleep, Adam is all about touch. I envy Vanessa, who — I assume — gets that attention every night Adam is home. But I shouldn’t. What he and I have is a luxury few couples achieve, and I’m lucky to have my share of him.

Most nights, Adam starts with the softest of kisses, with subtle caresses of arms, shoulders, neck, lower legs — whatever is in reach or takes his interest. He has been known to spend twenty minutes just caressing my feet and calves. He loves kissing and licking my neck, or the insides of my elbows, sometimes taking me by surprise when I’m sitting, doing my makeup or hair.

He’ll run his fingernails up and down my upper arms, or across my back, behind my knees or up my inner thighs. He’ll stroke gently across my stomach, sweeping down to just miss my pubic mound but tease my hip-bones. Sometimes he’ll use his palms or fingertips, sometimes one of my makeup brushes. All of this will be light, sensuous, teasing — almost tickling, but not quite.

Then he’ll increase the pressure. His massages are amazing. When I’ve been driving all day and I’m tense and aching, he can ease it away effortlessly and deliciously. And he never seems to tire. I love — that forbidden word again – his unselfishness. He’ll spend an hour relaxing and soothing me, and I won’t even have touched his cock yet.

Of course, eventually I do touch his cock. With my hands, with my mouth, with my pussy. I love feeling it on my skin, rubbed between my breasts or my buttocks, sliding in my slit when I’m wet. I’m always wet after Adam’s foreplay, and frequently before, just from the anticipation. Of course, he’ll also be touching me with his clever, hot, wet tongue, his soft, almost girlish lips, and with those talented fingers.

At some stage, my legs will open and he’ll move between my thighs and we’ll fuck. I might have sucked him for a while, we may have indulged in a long and orgasmic 69 — whatever — but ultimately the pinnacle for us both is the fuck. When he’s moving inside me, gently and softly, passionately and forcefully, in missionary, doggy, cowgirl, spoons or any other position you care to name — we normally move through several — I’m in a rapture that’s hard to explain. When Paul makes love to me — he’s far too genteel to ever use the word ‘fuck’ — it’s pleasant, romantic, loving, cosy, but never like when Adam fucks me. A husband is for life, but a lover — that word again -makes every meeting feel like Christmas.

Adam can make me come with just his cock, something that Paul has never achieved in eight years of marriage. Not always, but fairly often. Perhaps it’s just that with Adam, I’m so much more aroused, so much more alive, that my brain and my emotions take me there, and Adam’s cock is just the catalyst. But I doubt it’s just that. There are sensations with Adam’s cock I never get from Paul. It’s not that he’s bigger — well not much — or a different pendik escort shape. He just uses his cock so well.

On the occasions when this isn’t enough, he can sense it, and his fingers or his thumb find my clit — or sometimes just my breast or my perineum is enough — and his mouth teases my nipples or my neck, and I’m there. Adam always make me come, and, unless we’ve planned it that way, always before him. OK, sometimes, gloriously, simultaneously. But I’m never left with a pussy that’s filled full with semen but otherwise unfulfilled.

After sex, we’ll lie in each other’s arms for a while, enjoying the warmth of touch, the closeness of our bodies. Then we’ll clean up and prepare for our next bout. Such is the luxury of a great lover. And we may never have met, if it hadn’t been for a bottle of wine.

I’d checked into this dull, business hotel in Leeds, on a rainy March night. I’d showered, phoned Paul, done a bit of work on my laptop, then headed down to the restaurant around 8, too lazy to stroll out and find somewhere better to eat.

I’d spotted Adam when the waiter seated me at the next table to him. I mean, you couldn’t not see Adam, even in a crowded room, and the restaurant wasn’t that busy. He’s tall, always immaculately dressed even when casual, has a great physique which no clothes can hide, and radiates charisma like an arc-light on a dark night. I tried not to stare, but it’s hard not to. The waiter seated me with my back to him, and I thought ‘just as well. He’d be too much of a distraction while I’m eating.’ After all, I’m a married woman — eight years married — and I don’t cheat on my husband. That is, I didn’t back then.

When the waiter came back, I ordered the sea bass, and asked him if I could have just a glass of the Cloudy Bay. “Sorry, madam, but we only sell that one by the bottle. There’s a nice Chilean Sauvignon which we offer by the glass if you’d prefer?”

“Don’t compromise,” came a sonorous voice from behind me. “If you like, I’ll buy a bottle and split it with you.”

I glanced round. The guy was smiling at me. “Cloudy Bay is one of my favourites with fish. If this gentleman will take my order, perhaps you’d join me and we can share an excellent bottle, rather than compromise with something less?”

My mother always said never to take sweeties from strangers. However, he was a very handsome stranger, and half a bottle of Cloudy Bay isn’t exactly a sweetie.

The waiter took his order — the skate with black butter — and went off to fetch the required bottle and some San Pellegrino. My unexpected benefactor rose to his feet and offered me his hand and a perfect, white even smile. “Hi. I’m Adam.”

I gave a little, choked laugh, and he raised one eyebrow, quizzically. “Funny?” he asked.

I took his hand, and his grip was firm but gentle. “You’re not going to believe this,” I said, smiling back, “but my name’s Eve.”

His smile expanded into a broad grin. “Obviously there’s more to our meeting than just my desire to share a good bottle of wine and some intelligent conversation.”

“A sign, perhaps?” I smiled back as we sat down at his table. “I’m flattered that you expected intelligent conversation from me.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You have an intelligent face, you move confidently, you dress well but not flashily, your voice betrays education and refinement, and you have excellent taste in food and wine. You carry the latest Blackberry, but keep it tucked into your good quality but understated handbag, showing that it’s a business tool and not a fashion statement. By the fact that you’re here on your own, I’d guess saleswoman, consultant or accountant. Am I right?”

I was impressed by his carefully-observed and rather flattering assessment of me — and the fact that he’d deliberately avoided using words like ‘attractive’. His chat-up line, if that’s what it was, was about my mind, not my body.

“A bit of the first two. Software sales, helping clients use our products to solve particular business problems. And you? I’d guess management consultant or something in property.”

“Very good! Yes, I’m in commercial property. I help clients source, assess, buy, sell — whatever. I travel all over the country. What does your husband do?”

His question threw me, but then I realised that if he’d recognised my Blackberry half-hidden in my bag, then he must have noticed my wedding and engagement rings. Instinctively, I glanced down. He too had a ring on the third finger of his left hand.

“He — he’s a programme manager with a large integrator. Some weeks we hardly see each other, if he’s locked into a difficult bid or delivery project. What about your wife?”

“Oh, she’s currently mostly a housewife.”

“Mostly?”

“Vanessa’s a trained accountant, like me, but she’s spending most of her time looking after our son, James. He’s just three, and quite a handful. She’ll go back to work properly when he’s at school. We talked about getting a nanny, but we feel it’s really important for a kid to bond with his parents. With me away so much, maltepe escort she agreed to stay at home with the boy.”

I don’t know why, but I felt a little deflated. I’m a happily-married woman, but for some reason, swapping information on marital status with a handsome stranger seemed somehow — wrong. It was like bringing them to our table, looking over our shoulders at our private conversations. I shrugged off the feeling, thinking ‘He’s just a passing acquaintance who could liven up an otherwise dull evening’, and was delighted when, a moment later, the wine waiter arrived with our bottle.

Adam tasted the Sauvignon, pronounced it excellent but insisted on an ice bucket to keep it cool. The waiter poured us a glass each, and then opened and poured us some San Pellegrino. I swigged thirstily, knowing that if I didn’t drink quite a lot of water, I’d guzzle the wine too fast and become drunk — not a good move under most circumstances, and certainly not with someone like Adam. For reasons that were not quite clear to me (or at least, that I wouldn’t admit to at the time), I felt I needed to impress him.

He asked me some more about my work, how widely and frequently I travelled, where I usually stayed. It seemed that we’d visited many of the same towns, even some of the same hotels, and laughed together about their idiosyncrasies. The wine tasted good, and Adam was congenial company. He recommended alternative places to stay, restaurants that he’d found. And always with an amusing little anecdote.

Our starters arrived — a bruscetta for him, a goat’s cheese salad for me — and we discussed other things we had in common. Music – we both like jazz and similar classical composers, though I also rather like indie and he’s more into rock; modern art — a mutual taste for Pollock and Hirst, a shared loathing of Rothko and Emin; sport — neither of us can stand football, but we both ski, scuba dive, and we’re enthusiastic gym users. He also plays golf — ‘for professional reasons’ – and runs, while I swim, but we certainly have loads in common.

By the time we had finished our main courses, and our second glasses of wine, he had developed an easy rapport. I watched Adam eat, which seemed almost a spectator sport in itself. He separated the soft flesh of the skate from the cartilaginous ribs with an easy and methodical elegance, lifting small, carefully-gathered forkfuls to his mouth and eating them with a grace I’d rarely seen in a man. Paul shovels his food in as fast as he can, with no finesse. He says it’s because he comes from a large family — he has three brothers — and the kids had to compete for seconds. In any event, Adam is a much more refined eater than my husband.

We finished the bottle — it was as luscious as I had remembered when I chose it – over dessert. He hesitated over the cheese board, but like me chose the fresh fruit — another shared passion. Over coffees, we each described our schedule for the next few weeks.

“Milton Keynes? Yes, I’m there next week. I have to check out an office block for a client. He’s thinking of buying and refurbishing. I’ll probably be there for a couple of days. There are several premises to view.”

I realised with a sudden thrill that we had a chance to continue our pleasant and (so far) platonic relationship. “Maybe we can meet up? I have a meeting in Peterborough on Tuesday, and in Milton Keynes on Wednesday. I could spend Tuesday night in that soulless hole, and it would be good to have some company.”

“Sounds like a good idea. I’ll check my diary and send you an email. Do you have a card?”

It seemed odd and strangely clandestine to be exchanging cards with a man who was not a business associate. I don’t know why, but it felt a little unfaithful to my husband to be having dinner with a strange — and very handsome — man, and planning another such liaison the following week. Even though nothing sexual had been suggested, it still felt wrong.

He excused himself and headed out to the toilet, while I tapped his details and our planned appointment into my Blackberry. I even went so far as to email the hotel for a reservation. It seemed important that I shouldn’t lose the opportunity.

He returned having collected the bill, which he insisted on charging his room. I accepted after a little protest. We headed for the lift together, and as it rose we stood in silence, just looking at each other for the time it took to get to our floor. There was an atmosphere between us that it felt wrong to disturb with words.

I think that it was then that I decided, though I didn’t really acknowledge it immediately, that if he asked, I would sleep with him. My eyes, perhaps hazy from the three glasses of excellent wine I’d drunk, took in the entire package; the broad shoulders, the slim hips, the long, lean frame. And the eyes — a startling blue, with long lashes, over those high cheekbones. And the mouth — soft, almost sensual lips, above a square, rugged chin, giving an interesting juxtaposition. All in all, a very tempting package.

I felt kartal escort that he was also appraising me. He had seemed to enjoy my company. We had shared a rapport that I rarely achieved at a first meeting, even with members of my own sex. With him, although the situation could have been awkward, he had made it easy and relaxed, made me feel intelligent, interesting and attractive. I had felt none of the embarrassment I might have felt, no need to be defensive to defuse the suppressed sexuality of the situation.

Until, at the door of his room, he turned and unexpectedly kissed me. It was immediately more than just a polite, friendly, goodnight kiss to a relative stranger. Its warmth and thrillingly-implied sexuality took my breath away. “So is this goodnight?” he asked as his lips released mine. “Or could it be a second ‘hello’?”

I was momentarily dumbstruck. He smiled, swiped the card-key to his room and pushed the door open. “Would you prefer to come in or turn in?”

“I — I…” I stammered, still breathless. I could still feel the soft imprint of his lips on mine, and raised my hand to my mouth instinctively. I could feel the way his embrace had pressed his firm chest against my breasts. “I… I…”

I stepped into the room, and he followed behind me, closing the door. I don’t know what had possessed me. At that moment I suddenly experienced the feeling a colleague had recently described to me, when I had expressed surprise at his announcement that he does a bungee-jump once a year. He said “it reminds me that I’m alive”. Stepping over that threshold was like stepping off the platform before the plunge into the depths below. But at that moment, perhaps insanely, I craved the scary rush to remind myself why I needed the safe comfort of a husband at home.

“Adam”, I said after we’d kissed again, and he began to unbutton my blouse. “Please promise me one thing. This is just about the sex, isn’t it? I’m not getting into something — something emotional – that I’ll regret later?”

He smiled broadly. “Yes, Eve. If you like, I’ll promise I won’t still love you in the morning. Probably I’ll still lust after you, as I do now, but we can place the ‘L’ word out of play.” He kissed me again, ran his clever fingers over my skin, and I began the long, slow-motion plunge into the abyss.

It was strange, lying naked on the bed, my skin still tingling from his caresses as he’d undressed me, watching him carefully hanging up his clothes over the chair. He removed them with a fluid grace; first his shirt, showing a nice smooth chest and well-defined six-pack, then his shoes and socks, then his trousers, and finally his tight jersey boxers. When I saw him standing at the end of the bed, fully naked and flaunting a full and rampant erection, I was in glorious free-fall.

I don’t look at porn much; most of what I’ve seen doesn’t do much for me. Of the little I have seen, it seems to be principally about unattractive guys with very big cocks doing fairly brutal things to girls with fake breasts. For me, sex isn’t a spectator sport — it’s all about participation, and looking at pictures of cocks does little for me. Looking at the real thing, and having a pretty good idea where that cock was going, was a very different matter.

One thing that struck me was that Adam’s pubic area was smooth — shaved or waxed, I wasn’t sure which. I’d never seen one like that, at least not in the full, hard flesh, and it definitely looked sexier. I once heard a comedian joke that no-one ever said ‘Wow, what an attractive scrotum!’ With the hair removed, and his balls drawn up tight under the shaft of his nice, up-curved, circumcised cock, it was definitely more desirable than normal — or maybe it was just because I was very horny.

He put a pack of condoms on the bedside table. “I don’t normally carry them,” he said, almost apologetically, “but when I guessed the way our relationship might go, I had to get these from the machine in the toilets when I went out during dinner.” He extracted one from the pack, ripped the foil open and put it carefully down between the pillows.

I was excited, wet. I felt like I had at university, meeting and shagging pretty boys on a Saturday night. Sex was suddenly fresh and exciting again. And it got more exciting when Adam got on the bed, wrapped his strong arms around me and pressed that lovely tight body against me. Our kisses and caresses became more passionate, with him making my skin tingle, exciting my nipples, stroking my thighs and buttocks with his clever fingers. I could feel the hard rod of his cock pressed against me, which excited me even more. At no stage did his erection soften — unlike Paul, who can lose his erection several times during one of our lovemaking bouts and often has to be revived orally.

Then I was on my back, enjoying Adam’s finger-work in my pussy and his lips on my nipples. I was floating on a cloud of erotic sensations, so I didn’t notice him reach between the pillows. The next thing I knew, he’d moved between my legs, spreading them wider. I felt the tip of his cock at my entrance and panicked briefly that he’s forgotten the condom. Then I recognised with a mixture of relief and disappointment the sensation of cool, slippery rubber, rather than warm, velvety cock-head. And then he was sliding inside me.

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