I always looked forward to the taste of her. Or maybe, tastes. All women have something unforgettable about them. Sometimes, it’s a delicious laugh that brightens even the darkest day. Other times an impish streak that makes you always feel like you’re on a roller coaster. With Rose it was her flavours. That intoxicating vanilla of her lipstick, the delicious salty bite of her skin, and, of course, always, the fruity tang of her sex.
She was the juiciest woman I’d ever been with. Not just in that lewd sense, though yes, that too. She was like a peach. Ripe, tender, gushing. Her mouth so wet and inviting. Her tongue playful, flicking, coiling. I loved to suck on her lips, the way it elicited soft moans from her.
Standing between her spread legs, we renewed our connection that way we always did, kissing, quick butterfly kisses quickly transitioning into deeper, wetter, soul kisses. Looking into each other’s eyes, the recognition of each other’s longing, passion, dormant for months at a time, then always reawakened when we were together.
I could kiss her for hours. I had. Many times. Especially when we were young and that was all we did. I thought all women would be like her, so juicy and tasty, and was disappointed to find they weren’t, though as I say, every woman has something. Still, as much as I enjoy the physical differences, I’ll always have an unshakable attachment for Rose.
She was my first. I, hers. Sneaking away from the parents’ boring chatter we’d explore the lakeshore, the woods, and, over time each other. And so it still was. The annual gathering marking the start of summer. Several extended families gathering. Sundresses, mint juleps, croquet on the lawn. Rose and I always finding time to escape.
It was harder now. We couldn’t just disappear for hours on end. She was with Chris. Though as long as he didn’t put a ring on her finger, I didn’t feel too guilty. I’m not really sure I’d feel guilty even then. She’d been mine before she was his, and anyway, I’m not sure I could resist tasting her lips, feeling her full breasts, her puffy, sensitive nipples, gazing longingly at her strawberry and cream complexion, feasting at her pink, swollen pussy.
She handled me like no other woman. Or maybe she’d trained me to associate the firm grip of her soft hand with the proper way for a woman to work a cock. Firm strokes of my shaft, her palms curling over the head of my cock, her tongue licking my lips at the same time in a not-so-subtle hint of things to come. By now the...
Read all about the wonderful author: Ben Boswell