Lately, I’ve been writing a bit about some of the discomfort I feel, and not, so much, about the fun I have, or about the desire I feel.
I don’t write fiction. I never have. What I do write are feelings. So when what I feel is anticipation, then, I’m able to write about desire. Sometimes, I write about things that have happened.
This happened, recently, when Marina returned from her trip. [I apologize for the somewhat disjointed way in which my recent interactions with Marina, and the facts of her trip, have been presented here. There are reasons for it, but the reasons unfortunately aren’t narrative. So if you’re trying to figure out what’s been going on from afar, that would be kinda hard, I think.]
Anyway, for the purposes of this post, here’s what you need to know: Marina was away. And, then, she was back. While she was away, I didn’t get as much of her as I was accustomed to, and I had to contend with a lot of difficult emotions in her absence. Some of which were about her, and some of which were a function of our relationship, but which had little or nothing to do with her, per se.
So Marina was back, and we had a “Zoom” meeting scheduled.
She showed up, in her lavender jumpsuit. As instructed.
In the hours before our “reunion,” Marina had granted me a bit of access to her body. She had dressed for me. She had edged for me. Twice. Maybe three times. In the lavender jumpsuit. In her running shorts, all sweaty after a run. And again, in the lavender jumpsuit.
Moments before we started, she had sent me a photo of her neck, encased in the too-big collar I had bought her some weeks ago. It’s too big, but it’s also just the right size.
When she shows me her neck in her (my) collar, my cock reacts. Inevitably. Inexorably.
Before the Zoom began, I had said to her, “Please, when you join, I would like you standing, facing me, and I would like you to come. I would like your first words to me to be, ‘I’m coming for you, N.’ And your next words, to be ‘Thank you, N.’ And then? We shall chat.”
And so it was.
The Zoom began, Marina backed away slightly from her computer to give me a better view of her body – a body that is delicious and curvy, and that she’s a bit self-conscious about because it’s maybe five pounds heavier than it was a couple of weeks ago – and bruised and battered, from ten days of hiking and camping. I never would have noticed the extra pounds had she not pointed them out to me. And/but, now, seeing them, mostly what I thought was, “Yum! More!“
So she backed up, opened her thighs, standing, and began pressing her clit through the soft, soft fabric of the lavender jumpsuit. It didn’t take her but two minutes to buckle her knees as she came for me, for the first time “in person” in a couple of weeks. “I’m coming for you, N,” she said as her knees buckled; and “Thank you, N,” moments after.
She straightened herself up. Asked if she should continue standing or if she should sit. “I’d like you to sit, for me,” I said. “But first, lower your top.” She brought the jump suit down toward her waist, exposing her (currently C-cup) breasts in a very soft bra(lette?). “Take your bra off, too,” I said. And she did.
I sipped my scotch as Marina, topless, settled in for an hour-long debrief with me about her absence, her return, and our past, present, and future.