|Blogs > HoratiusCocles > At The Bridge|
"The Affair" -- an excerpt
"The Affair" -- an excerpt
It began with a mistake, the affair.
In stabbing a guess at his age, she’d named a number that would have made her own age half again that of his. When, in fact, he was scarcely a year younger than she.
“So, how old are you, thirty-three, thirty-four?” she’d asked.
Absurdly pleased by her query, he’d responded with a soft smile and replied, “Thank you for the compliment. But, I just turned fifty, a little over a week ago.”
She’d frowned, cocked her head to one side, eyes gone round, the universal pose of skepticism.
“But, you’re so fit,” she’d protested, smiling coyly. “And, you look so young.”
He’d patted his flat belly proudly and grinned. “What can I tell you? But, really, I am fifty.”
"No, you’re not, you’re thirty-four,” she’d insisted, and so declared the subject closed.
He’d managed to look only slightly perplexed.
Amused by his confusion, she’d laughed and asked, “Do you want to come back to my place, maybe have a glass of wine?”
Shortly thereafter, they’d left the bar where they’d met and had gone to her apartment, he filled with anticipation, she with doubts. Because her doubts had continued to gnaw at her, they’d spent their first hours together talking as prospective lovers do, softly probing one another, learning more about one another.
And, every time he’d attempted to initiate even the softest intimacy between them, she’d lowered her head, turned away from him and protested, “I’m not very good at this.”
Eventually, though, his patience had won out, and he’d managed to fold her in his arms and tender soft kisses on her cheeks and neck. Their cumulative effect had calmed her so much by the time it came for him to depart that she’d unexpectedly asked him if he was sure he wanted to leave. He’d answered truthfully, and told her that he’d much prefer to stay and make love with her.
But, even in that honest moment she’d remained unsure.
So, smiling gently, he’d taken his leave, promising he’d return.
The next time, he’d known exactly what to do when she’d begun to protest. He’d cupped her face tenderly in his hands and kissed her lightly on her lips. Then, he’d taken her by the hand and led her into her bedroom. Where he’d thrown back all the covers on the bed, tossing aside pillows to make room for them.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now,” she’d whispered, eyes downcast, chin tucked hard against her freckled chest.
“I do,” he’d reassured her. He’d lifted her face with one hand, kissed her deeply, and whispered, “I know exactly what to do.”
He’d pulled her hands around his neck, and with his own hands free, had patiently begun to disrobe her. She’d moaned, softly at first, in response, then had begun to tug and pull at his shirt, ardor swelling.
Then, with both of their clothes removed, he’d lifted her off her feet, cradled her in his arms and in one complete motion deposited them lightly onto the bed, pulling the sheet over them.
To begin, it had been lips, then tongues, then hands, all engaged in increasingly intimate explorations of every tender spot within reach: cheeks, chins, ears, throats, breasts, abdomens, hips. And groins. Where his fingers had found her mons Veneris, its gateway already slick with moisture; where her fingers had found him aroused, rigid and erect. A few caressing strokes only, and they’d leapt toward each other, into an embrace far more urgent, far more satisfying than any they had known.
It was an attraction equal parts passionate and tender, sensual and spiritual, constant and faithless, the affair.
At its heart lay an uncomplicated craving for intimacy with one another, a fundamental desire that diminished neither in potency nor in efficacy as their relationship stretched first over weeks, then months, then, ultimately, a span of years.
He was married; she was divorced.
She had a daughter and granddaughter; he had two grown sons, but as yet no grandchildren.
He was of average height; she was tall.
She was supple and lithe, a dancer; he was fit and strong, an athlete.
He craved the soft, supple texture of her skin along her inner thighs, softly swelling breasts and curving buttocks; she craved the taut sheen of his flesh, stretched snugly over neck, shoulders and back.
She yearned for the touch of his lips on her breasts, of his softly flicking tongue on her inner thigh, of his warm breath upon her pubis, and lips, tongue and breath upon her jewel; he yearned for the trail of her tongue from lips to cheek, to chin, to chest, to abdomen and beyond, the deft graze of her teeth upon his glans, the deceptive strength and gentleness of her lips on every part of him.
He thirsted for the touch of her hands upon him, constantly in motion, gently caressing, urgently pulling, desperately clasping; she thirsted for the touch of his hands, as well, how they seemed to know the right spot to hold her in every instance, especially in her moments of greatest ecstasy.
She loved his gentle beginnings, even as every part of him coiled urgent, anxious; he loved her welcoming embrace, soft and pliant, intoxicating and enfolding.
He prized her limberness, her flexible dexterity; she prized his athletic endurance, his muscular precision.
She treasured his rhythm, his innate sense of timing, his instinctive coordination and teamwork with her, how he matched his movements to hers, even in those intense moments when her frantically escalating passion made her involuntarily flee from him; he treasured all the phases of her passion, welcoming and tender, ardent and purposeful, wanton and unrestrained, frantic and desperate.
He worshiped the way her entire body seemed to hunger for him, seemed to try to draw every bit of him ever deeper into her; she worshiped his response to her, her touch, her suggestions, her needs, the way he seemed to immerse himself completely within her.
She adored his creativity, especially at her moments of climax, and his gentleness after; he adored her fierce embrace in the moments of his release, the way she cradled and soothed him after.
And, when at last they were spent, she would brush aside the lock of dampened hair that inevitably hung against his forehead like an upside down question mark. Then, every time, she would smile and ask in a soft voice, “So, tell me, how old are you, again?”
Always, he would caress her cheek with his fingertips, and answer, “Why, I’m thirty-four.”