He sat in the dim light  

KinksGimpsSayee 59M
2 posts
8/23/2006 1:45 pm

Last Read:
8/23/2006 8:57 pm

He sat in the dim light

He sat in the dim light of the bar and looked at her. He’d told her once that she always had a kind of glow around her, an aura that he couldn’t explain. She laughed it off like she didn’t believe him, she thought he was just trying to be romantic or convince her of something. But he could see it now and he still couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t just a glow of beauty, although she’d always taken his breath away. And it wasn’t just a glow of sexual heat, although she had plenty of that too. A spiritual person might say it was the glow of her Pilgrim soul and only he could see it and while he loved the Yeats poem that contained that phrase, the idea that he could see her soul in a dim bar was really a little too spiritual for his practical tastes.

It was, he thought, a combination of all those things and more but it was a light that drew him in. He could never take his eyes away for long. He wondered if one day, someone would find him curled up on a porch, lying among the other moths shriveled and spent, and would they have any idea what happened to him.

If the light had a sexual hue, God knows that drew him in. It warmed him, sometimes burned right through him and when he thought of the things it made him want to do to her, he almost cringed in embarrassment, something he thought he had lost the ability to do a long time ago.

But that was part of the hold she had on him. Anything he could think of, any outrageous thing he wanted to do, all he had to do was tell her, just hint at it really, and she would laugh and move close and look at him with a challenge in her eyes. “Go ahead,” her eyes said to him. “I’ll go there if you take me.”

She caught him looking at her and he swore she knew what he was thinking and he saw the challenge.

He moved over next to her so their backs were to the wall, half sitting on high bar stools. She had on loose pants from a wind suit and he leaned against her like they were talking and he was propping his hand on the back of her stool. Just a couple out for a casual drink in a room full of younger people, trying to carry on a conversation in a noisy bar. Who knew what they were talking about? Probably the babysitter, they’d guess, or the day he had at the office. He looked out at the cocksure crowd, most of them in their twenties, and wondered in any of them had any idea what he and she were capable of. They probably would not believe we still had a decent night of sex in us, he thought, much less the things we do, the places we go.

He slipped his hand down the back of her wind suit and she slid a little back on the stool, just a slight movement but it was to his hand, not away. He never considered it would be anything else.

As he slowly moved his hand down, the tips of his fingers brushed the dimple where her spine met her tailbone. He guessed that all women had this dimple but hers was very pronounced. He had been fascinated by it in the first days of their lovemaking and couldn’t keep his fingers, his tongue, off the smooth depression. He once told her he bet he could make her cum, just by teasing that dimple. He had been right and the muscles in her ass had clenched and jumped under his lips.

Lower still, he moved his hand, past the tight crinkle of her asshole, till he felt silky wetness. She was perfectly hairless. He knew she shaved around her pussy, he had shaved her himself a time or two. But he was surprised whenever he felt between the cheeks of her ass and there was no hair there either. It wasn’t like that all the time but sometimes and he wondered how she did it, why she did it. Most of all, he wondered how she knew when the time was right to do it.

He stopped his hand at the wetness, that was all he needed and he moved his finger in her just enough to lubricate it. He then moved his hand back, just a bit, and he felt her tense. She knew what he was going to do. He pressed the tip of his finger against her asshole. He knew his nails were very short and all she felt was the slick probe of his fingertip. She relaxed and he pressed further in. She had her head down as if concentrating on the menu on the table top in front of them and he leaned forward to look like he was telling her something.

The glow about her was hard and hot now and it was all sex. It did that, it changed sometimes. He didn’t move his finger at all. He knew how they looked. A fairly well-to-do, very conventional couple. And he was sitting there with his finger buried in her. Not in her pussy, not the way more timid couples copping a feel in public would do it, in her ass, in the most private place possible. He knew she didn’t care, he knew it was the naughtiness, the forbidden aspect that was causing her to flow, to wet the barstool beneath her.

After a minute, he barely slid his finger back and that inner muscle that usually held things back pulsed and held him in, if anything pulled him in further. After that, he could feel it pulse every moment or so and he knew she was doing it deliberately but then he sensed it was becoming less deliberate, less under her control.

He bent forward and she turned her head just enough to look into his eyes. The challenge was gone now and in its place he saw a light. He knew it was the source of the glow, deep and bright.

He slid his finger out and brought his hand up. They stood without a word and walked out the door. As they passed a lamp over the sidewalk, he noticed a pile of moths, some of them fluttered weakly but most were still, their wings burned beyond all use.

He hesitated a moment and she turned slightly to wait on him as he studied the moths. Most people would see them as a sad sight, he thought. Few had any idea how happy they were as they fluttered to the ground.

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