by November Tuesday

Fucking this boy... Oh, fucking him.

He came to me with these eyes - eyes so sick and wide and simple in their intent.

Touched the skin below my neck, flat fingers tracing without sophistication, without device. Lips kissed without knowledge of kissing, tongue grazing my bottom lip in barest, most naked exploration. Just to see what I taste like.

Learning me, the response of my nipples, absorbing me, at first the broadest strokes of my curves, my softness. The forward motion of entry. I am the representative welcoming him to womankind. His crazy eyes close as he begins to thrust, soothed everything assimilated into one simple accord, one goal, one concept. And he builds to release.

Now I shudder underneath him, his virgin continent. He is straining, plunging, and flexing hard. He breaks on my shores with a cry and lies, collapsed, gasping and sweating. Broken but still hard, still simple. In a mind free of sin, of guilt, there is only marveling.

I am the object of his education, of his realization, still his kisses are sweet on my shoulder and I smile, warm and naked, rock my hips up softly and happily be the crucible of his discovery.

He never goes soft in me. I hold him until the quivering stops and he is breathing again. Slowly, inperceptibly, he is moving in me, again thrusting. A delicate sweet rocking of bodies, babes swinging in a tree. Eyes on mine, and the only fact between us is that we both want to fuck.

His strokes are the long full ones of a man just learning how to fuck, how to savor the stroke as the unit of fucking, all the way in, and all the way out. I am moaning and he moans sweetly with me in cadence as a child sings along with an unfamiliar song, and then the friction rises and I am keening, and his cry rises as I clench close upon him, it rises and it rises following me like a foal that suddenly rears and his cry is now his own, the spontaneous howl of a newborn man, rough and male and all his own, shaking shivering self.