Listen Closely

I lay beside you. My hand rests between your hips, not touching where you want to be touched but just a simple weight. You're throbbing. Aching. I place my mouth to your ear and begin. My breath tickling your ear, my voice inside your mind.

I tell you, in detail, of the day we were abroad, broke at the end of the trip. Visiting the parks was free. People watching was free. Sex was free. I helped you that morning into your loose skirt, each step swinging to outline your derriere. Into the low cut blouse, perfect for summer heat. And we walked the parks to see people. And be seen by them.

You turned every man’s head. They twisted to follow you, and your stride went from comfortable to confident to brazen until your glorious display made one biker nearly fall off the trail. I touched you here, there, stealing kiss.

You can see the scene, sketched from my voice. Your ache is getting deeper.

I whisper of pulling you to a picnic table, our sandwiches before us as a cover for me sliding my hand up your leg, across the thin cotton of your panties.

You twitch in real life, trying to move up to my fingers to no avail. The heat and need is growing.

My voice reminds you of the never-was day when you stood and wiggled your hips and slid those panties to the ground. Broke in a foreign country on a public park bench. Such risk. Such need. You were hot. Wanted. You could sit on that table and have had any man in the park between those legs. 

They all wanted you and you reveled in it.

I tell of my hand sliding under that skirt in the northern sun, in view of anyone who cared to look. How I split you open and started to touch you. The slow long strokes at first to pull as much of wetness to your clit before I started.

Just a touch at first until your breathing picked up steam, your pupils began to dilate. Your hands gripped the slats of the table, your nails digging into them.

As I talk I feel your hands clutching the mattress, desperate to touch yourself. Desperate not to. Your body is on fire. Your breath is picking up. You can feel the climax coming with nothing but my hand on your abdomen, my voice in your ear.

The park was cool but you were sweating, you could feel one drop trickle down your forehead as your vision blurred. I tell you of my fingers in you, the people in the park watching or not, who cares just do it….

The orgasm, I tell you, in that foreign park, where arrest might come, was total. You shuddered, muscles locked, and it took everything you had to not scream. You soaked my hand then, and your skirt. And the bench.

On the bed you moan. Your body shudders against my palm.