Forever A Philanderer

IT FELT ODD TO BRITNEY – no, wrong – kissing a stranger in her foyer. She was a married woman, had taken a vow to remain faithful to her husband till death did they part. But the second kiss, when he pushed his tongue into her mouth… it was like the painting on the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel in Rome, where God is about to touch Adam’s lifeless hand to spark him into being.

Who was it that painted that? she thought through a haze of marijuana and a reawakened passion. Michael Angelo?

This stranger was breathing life into her as surely as Michelangelo had given life to the act of creation, as surely as God had given life to Adam.

A Charles Bronson lookalike if ever there was one.

The way the stranger looked at her, after her t-shirt was gone, took away her breath. No one had ever looked at her like that, not even Jeff. His eyes, along with his comments about her being fat, always left her feeling self-conscious about her body.

But in this stranger’s eyes she saw desire, yes, and also lust. But there was admiration, too. Now his eyes met hers, and they seemed to be asking her permission, if it was okay that he drink in her nakedness. He seemed nearly apologetic that her nakedness filled him with desire, want, and need. All she ever saw in Jeff’s face was horniness and the need to get off. Never ever did he ever think about her pleasure.

Then the stranger’s hands were on her: holding her face as he kissed her yet a third time, softly, sensuously, with passion, not roughly; gently grasping her shoulders to pull her against him – their tongues still wrestling inside her mouth – sliding down her flanks and around to knead her buttocks, gently, with purpose, and more passion.

There’s magic in dem dere hands, she thought, moaning into his mouth, until he bent to take a breast in his mouth, sucking its nipple so tenderly, so lovingly. Not like – what was his name?

Jeff.

He always pawed at her, like an animal, and liked to bite her nipples, often hard enough to draw blood.

The stranger’s fingers now worked the button on her jeans, ever so slowly, as if the simple act of undressing her was itself foreplay to him, a moment to be savored, and she was surprised that she didn’t resist. There was still time for her to say, “No,” even as the zzz sound of her zipper filled her ears and he peeled her jeans down over her hips, stopping a moment to work his warm, moist tongue into her navel; but all she wanted to say was, “Yes” and “yes” and “yes” yet again, screaming her accedence if she had to, to make this moment real.

That was me, she realized, the sound of her gasp in her ears.

With Jeff, whenever he told her he “wanted it,” she always sighed. But it was a sigh of disappointment. Jeff was just too dense to know it.

Or maybe he just didn’t care so long as he got his own rocks off.

Her jeans were now at her feet; she stepped out of them, still in her panties, leaning on the stranger kneeling before her to maintain her balance. His face was level with her mons Venus, his eyes fixed on her pink lace bikini panties, admiring them and what lay concealed inside them, perhaps lost in a fantasy, as she was lost in one of her own, wondering what he might do next, hoping it would be what her husband had never done.

On his knees before her, his hands resting lightly on her hips, he looked as if he was in church, kneeling before the altar that was her body, about to partake of communion, of the bodily fluid that gives life to erections.

He inhaled deeply and glanced up into her eyes again, as if seeking her consent; Britney smiled at him.

Forgoing conversation, he sighed and kissed her sex through the thin fabric of her panties. Whimpering, she threw back her head, her desire growing.

A moment later he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties and eased them down over her hips, down past her knees, down to her ankles.

After she stepped out of them, he began to kiss and lick the inside of her left thigh, right there in the foyer. With her back against the front door, she heard the footsteps of the mailman on the porch. Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing came in short gasps. “Ohhh,” she groaned. The thought that the mailman might hear her inflamed her passion. She heard the squeak of the mailbox’s metal hinge, the clang of its closure, his departing footsteps.

Then the stranger proceeded to give her right thigh the same treatment, as if he didn’t wish it to feel neglected. His hot, fervid kisses on her inner thighs felt heavenly; as foreplay they were divine. Her husband’s idea of foreplay was telling her to spread her legs and then falling on top of her to have his way with her.

Slowly, gently, he kissed and nibbled his way higher, alternating between both legs, leaving a thin trail of saliva.

She was thoroughly, utterly wet, ready and willing for anything the stranger might do.

Knees trembling, she spread her legs wider, inviting him to… and caught her own scent.

Will he? she wondered when he could go no further, hoping, praying. Her husband never had and professed he never would.

“Yesss,” she breathed as she felt the stranger’s torrid tongue dance across her blooming clit.

“Oh, my god,” she groaned, raising herself up on the balls of her feet.

She thought she’d just died and gone to heaven.