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Old 02-01-2009
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Default Did It Really Happen? - part 2 of 2

(part 2 of 2)

I begin to speak, but she puts her finger to my lips and quiets me. "Take off my dress," she instructs me, and so I get on my knees in front of her and begin to pull it down the rest of the way. Her beautiful tits, with nipples wet from my mouth, are before me. She has on lovely lace panties that contrast with her delicious skin. I move to pull them aside and I discover that the bulge I felt earlier is, indeed, a cock. I feel my own leak.

She notices that I have noticed. "Do you want me?" she asks again.

My heart is pounding. In a second, I look around the room. The soft candlelight and music create an aura of romance. The music, which I cannot identify but that creates a perfect mood, ebbs and flows. I think quickly, and answer. "Would you like some wine?"

The beautiful woman before me smiles and whispers, "That is the correct response to my question, for now." She pulls me to her and kisses me again, and then sits back comfortably on the couch. I pour two glasses of wine and sit next to her. She is naked, but for the lace panties. I am partially undressed, disheveled. We look deeply into each other's eyes.

"I've been waiting to come see you," she says, "ever since the first time we met. Do you remember?"

It is beginning to come back to me. "You were at the museum a few weeks ago, right?"

"Yes, that was me."

Several weeks ago, I took some time off from work to treat myself to an afternoon at the fine arts museum. I found myself mesmerized by an abstract expressionist painting, and stood staring at it for what seemed like an eternity. A beautiful woman came and stood next to me and began to speak to me. She asked me what I saw, and I told her that it was changing with every minute. She laughed and told me that that was the story of her life. Confused, I asked her what she meant, and she told me that sometimes what we think we see is not what we are truly seeing, and sometimes what we are truly seeing is something that we are afraid to see, and sometimes what we are afraid to see is the very thing we most want to see. I asked her whether she was playing hooky from a philosophy class at the nearby university.

That afternoon, we looked at a number of abstract expressionist paintings together in that particular gallery room of the museum. Our discussion was engrossing. There was something special, something different about her. I was captivated. And then she got a text message and, in a flash, declared that she had to leave right away. I never got her name, but I went back to the museum the next day and asked the guard in that room whether he remembered her and anything about her. He told me she had spoken briefly to him and said she was visiting from out of town. That sealed it. I guess it was my disappointment and the realization that I would probably never see her again that made her face begin to fade from my memory.

Now she sits next to me, half-naked, with a glass of wine in her hand and arousal between her legs. It is something I have longed for.

We talk and laugh and find ourselves emphasizing the things we say with caresses. She puts down her empty glass and tells me I have passed the test.

"What test is that?" I ask.

"I am a special woman," she answers. "Remember the paintings we looked at? I can only be with someone who can see beyond the obvious, and see who I really am. I have no desire to be a stop on a tour. I want to be aroused by ideas, by romance, and by truth, just as much as I am aroused by the animal instinct that is in me as in every human."

"We are back in philosophy class," I joke. But then I turn serious. "You are special. I have been looking for you."

She pulls me to her lips again and we kiss. Then she whispers: "Show me."

I get on my knees between her spread legs. Although we have never been together, I know this is something she loves. I can see how hard she has become inside her panties. I push them aside to free her beautiful cock. It rises to me, and I take it one hand and caress it softly. I have never done this before, but I am guided by what I know feels good to me. She gasps.

I am harder from this than I have ever been before. With my other hand, I struggle to remove my pants. It is difficult to do with one hand, but I succeed. I pull my briefs down and free myself. I am fully naked on my knees. I feel worshipful of her beauty, and I show her. I kiss her cock, my first cock, and then I gently run my tongue up and down her. It is larger than my own. I look up into her eyes for a signal that I am doing the right thing. She smiles and kisses me from that distance.

With one hand on her, I take her cock and put it in my mouth. Again, this is my first time, but her reaction seems to tell me that I am doing it right. As she gets wetter and wetter from my mouth, I take her deeper and deeper. I am loving this. What a fabulous feeling. What a beautiful taste. I reach up with my other hand to caress a nipple. After a moment, she takes that hand and sucks on one of my fingers. Pushing my hand down, she makes it clear that I am supposed to stick that moistened finger in my own ass. I will do anything she wants.

My own hard cock is leaking. I can feel the precum dripping down from it, but I ignore the attention it calls out for to concentrate on her. This is what I want. As I finger myself from behind, I continue to worship her cock. I can feel it growing in my mouth. I know what that means. I am not afraid. I want the sweet juice. I want to drink it. I want to show her that I am for real, that this is what I really want. I want her to fill my mouth with her cum and know that as I drink it I am fully aware that we are sharing everything, not just some bodily fluid. I want her to know that what we are doing now is yet another expression of the connection that we made when we first met, and that we will continue to connect in other ways that are not about sex.

She continues to grow in my mouth. I want to kiss her, though, so I rise from my knees slightly and bring myself to her lips. "I love the way you taste," I tell her. "Thank you for coming back to me." She smiles as I put my tongue in her mouth. A moment passes, and she pushes my head back to between her legs.

I take up where I left off, and it is only another few moments before I hear her breathing change. She clutches the cover on the couch. With her cock filling my mouth, I smile, because I know that I cannot possibly be doing this that well. But she, in all her beauty, is encouraging me.

Suddenly, her beautiful cock begins to unload a delicious liquid in my mouth. I drink it greedily, but not every drop. As it continues to spurt, I feel myself cum, too. I have never done so without direct stimulation, but it is happening now. I feel like a teenager about to have sex for the first time, like a premature ejaculation. But I don't care. As her cumming begins to subside, I use my hand to caress her beautiful, and now empty, balls. I then rise off my knees, bring my mouth to her lips, and kiss her passionately. We share the bit of her cum that I saved for this moment. It makes my lips glisten and tingle. I am in spent, and I am in love.

We collapse in each other's arms on the couch. She whispers in my ear that she must leave.

"How did you even get here?" I ask.

"I am magic," she answers. "Because you believed, I could be here."

"Will I see you again?" I ask.

"Be at the museum tomorrow afternoon," she says. "Meet me in the same gallery. We have other things to look at, and more ideas to pursue."

"I will be there. I cannot think of anyplace I'd rather be."

"Don't be so sure," she replies. "You have to give yourself to the moment. And there will be another moment like this. There is someplace else I'd like to put myself."

I feel my entire body shudder in pleasure at the thought. I close my eyes for a moment, and she is gone. I am fully dressed. The laptop screen has my work on it. The candles are gone, and there is no music playing. But there, on the table, I notice a single wine glass, with a slight stain of lipstick on it.
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