A Clear After noon in Delhi
It was a letter sent last spring to a lover, whose identity should now be obvious, and who subsequently insisted that I post this piece. -T.] Boy, it’s frustrating. This morning, the unseasonably cold temperature and a filling bladder ganged up on my short sleep cycle to wake me at 6:30. And, after I get up, I can’t get back to bed (not that I was particularly sleepy). So now I have to sit here and watch you not log in. Sigh. I’ll pass the time somehow.
Where was I? Kneeling in front of a tree in a park somewhere, I think. You standing before me, the breeze catching your hair and the airy fabric of your skirt. Concentrate on that for a moment — it could almost lift you away, couldn’t it? Perhaps if you held out those arms and breathed in, holding very still, the wind could just pick you up and steal you away with it. I’ll have to hold you tighter, then; I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen. You’re feeling the breeze against your skin, tasting it through the stuff of your blouse and skirt, but you’re also feeling my hands on your bared hips, rubbing them gently to keep you warm. (Which works better? The friction of my palms against your skin, or the delirious feeling you get just from knowing my hands are pressed against you?) And, most of all, you feel my eyes. I return to kissing your stomach, my lips barely moving but gliding across the silken surface of your stomach, painting it as if with camels-hair.
It is one of the most frightening, ecstatic things I can imagine right now. It is, in fact, the only thing to surpass the delight I feel at sliding my fingertips around the waistband of your underwear, inserting them slightly underneath in order to taste the wonderfully extra-special taboo of your delta and lower hips. The next move, I think, is yours. What moves you? I know how sensitive your skin is; that’s why I keep my mouth so feathery against you, why I try to make my breath my primary tool, why I move my fingers so slow against the rise of your belly. When I look up again at you, my eyes find a match across the rise of your stomach and your breasts. Your look is not exactly pleading and not exactly demanding, but somewhere in between: Give Me What I Want. A simple statement of fact, one with which I am more than happy to agree. >From inside your skirt, my fingers sneak upwards and hook onto its waistline. Tugging only a few inches down, bringing it over your soft hips and ass, is enough to take it completely off your body. I remove my hands from underneath it and, its purchase lost, the fabric slips to the ground. I return my hands to your waist and, after contemplating a moment, gently pull your panties off as well. They slide down your legs to your feet, leaving you gloriously bare to the world.
Think about that for a moment before I continue. What do you feel? The breeze, I think, which tickles your body even more insistently than before, drifting flaxen fingers around your thighs and pubis. Since you’re also leaning up against a tree, I think you can feel the bark bite rather distinctly into your back, and smell the wood and the leaves heavy in the air. Perhaps it rained not long ago … yes. That would enhance the odor, wouldn’t it? Very much so. And vaguely, as if from far away (although they must be in one of the groves only a few feet away) you can hear the birds sing to you. Through all of this sensory input, you feel returned to the here and now by the warmth of my face pressed against your belly. I have begun to lose the control I have held so very tenuously for the last few minutes, and cannot keep from shaking while I kiss you. My hands have inched around to the small of your back and knead your buttocks. I have to concentrate on self-control, or I might give you bruises. Watching, you see my head slip lower. Then you feel it as well: my mouth, soft but hungry, matching your vulva.
My lips against yours — it seems almost comedic. Your scent is a better aphrodisiac than any wine or chemical perfume I have ever known, and I kiss you yet more urgently. My tongue inches out to feel your slit, and get a sense of its length. I can taste your sweat, and perhaps? just a little? the maddening taste of your excitement, your gently lubed cunt. I’m encouraged. I press harder with the tip of my tongue and find passage inside to that wondrous, tangy enclave. I’ve been craning my neck during this operation and must turn my head sideways to accomplish this last maneuver. You’re aware, through the haze of your slightly labored breathing and the electricity you’re beginning to feel in your groin, that perhaps the experience might be enhanced by a better position. You find yourself inching backward, hoping to gain purchase up to the roots of the tree. You can feel the bark scratching your neck as you urge yourself against the tree, but only dimly, as if in a dream — later, at home, you will brush twigs and ground bark out of your hair and wonder how it got there. Feeling your muscles taut with excitement, and noticing you scrabbling for a better position, I slide my hands down to your inner thighs and push out and up, straightening my back as I do so. The result finds you lifted slightly off the ground and sitting, effectively, on my outstretched hands, that patient tree giving you (and me) enough support to make the attempt a successful one. I tilt my head back slightly and allow myself to revel in your taste, your scent, in you. It’s almost too much for you to bear. With one hand pressed against the bough of the tree to maintain your balance, you bring the other down to the back of my head and wrap your fingers in my hair. Close your eyes and tilt your head back — all you want to feel is my tongue, pressing and dancing and twirling about. It wants desperately to know you, and you want oh so much to return the favor. You push the back of my head gently into your crotch and begin to draw your legs together (a motion which, I’m led to understand, excites some women naturally).
This action naturally brings your thighs from my hands up onto my shoulders, a position I find preferable anyway. I’m finding it a bit difficult to breathe with you surrounding my face and my mouth like this, but what I do breathe includes so much of you that I can hardly object. What were the instructions you mentioned before? Just let your lips and tongue move at random, isn’t that about it? Perhaps I will take your advice. Oh, that’s good. It seems to work — you’ve let out a mild gasp and have begun rocking against my face. I can feel your ankles crossed behind my back but, like the bark on your skin, only at the edge of my consciousness. I am too involved in your cunt to worry about such details. My hands, around your waist, hold you tighter as my tongue moves more and more frantically. With each stroke, you rock more vigorously against me, and above your thighs, I hear rapid panting. If I continue for much longer,
I’m afraid I might come on my own. Not to worry, however. It’s only another minute or so before the quick back-and-forth of your hips becomes a vibrato, and your choppy gasps escalate almost into moans. The moment right before orgasm always gives me my second wind; my tongue, beginning to flag, redoubles its efforts and directly prods and flicks your clitoris. With a single, long shudder, your thighs grind against my cheekbones and you lean forward convulsively over my head. You’re hoping to expose yourself to me even further, to hit a single perfect epiphany at the moment of orgasm. Although you and I both know it’s hardly possible for me to be more intimate with you at this moment, it’s the effort that makes the difference. After a very long, very fulfilling come, you relax back against the tree. Slowly I lower you to the ground, your skirt and panties in a disarray around your ass. You open your eyes and, smiling softly, we look at each other for a moment. I don’t need to say it and you don’t need to hear it: I love you. you know it, your T.