Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

A Hand for Valentine

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It’s been longer than I willing admit; I even began to believe that the spark was gone. That spark that once afforded us the trials and tribulations of budding couples. There was little care of when, where, and why. We summed it up with no more words than “just because”; there wasn’t a reason to because “it” was the reason. The overdoses wasn’t a thing of hospital visits for us, but one that built us. I now find myself questioning it all.

I stood in the background overcomed by jealousy, listening to friends tell stories of how intimate others consumed their ecstasy leaving no sign of the event, all in their mouths to be ingested as if a cup of warm tea. I, well, I hadn’t seen such sight in a horrid lengthy time.

That day, lo and behold, things were different. From the multi-coloured roses, to the reservations at the fancy little Bistro that had just opened up, to her attire and desire to bring the roses along with her to the restaurant. We rode to our destination in a taxicab, something not done since our move out of the city. The conversation was sort of peculiar. She continuously spoke of how free and careless we once were, how she wished we’d toss formality to the side to return to that liberty from the past.

I smiled, agreeing that we were indeed a bit less caring of proper behavior; more into the building of lasting memories, even if a few didn’t turn out as expected. She then became sort of edgy, riské, even. She raised her knee-length skirt up to end of her stockings and asked if she should show the driver her intimacy. I became excited at the idea that she would dare, not only ask that question, but be adventurous enough to carry it out. I was affirmative in reply, quick, too.

Maybe it was the normality of our recent behaviours, maybe the excitement of the moment, or simply realizing that she was still in there. She laughed loudly enough to startle the driver who was intently listening to foreign music. He looked through the rear-view-mirror sort of verifying that everything was ok with us. She smiled and waved her hand in his direction, asking if he thought that she looked seductive with a rose clenched between her teeth.

“Very Much, Miss”, he replied.

She grabs the rose from her mouth, out loud tells me to unbuckle, unzip and show her what’s hiding under those finely pressed slacks. She looks forward and tells the driver that I’m scared. That years back I hadn’t any sensitivity to others seeing us, but now, now I had grown complacent… I had become too prudent. To further insult, the driver tells me to respect the lady, and grant her wishes… as if I hadn’t been wanting for this moment for too long.

Again she laughs. Tells me to hurry because the driver wants to see how her lips map indecencies. The driver can’t shut up. I felt as if it were him the one she was asking to unzip. I wanted to ask him to be quiet, but she prevented me. She put her index finger over my lips, hushed me, and while looking at him through the rearview mirror, she approached me. I could see his eyes growing larger, his head elevating in an attempt to capture a position that would yield a better view.

I didn’t care at this point what he could or couldn’t see. I grabbed her long hair with one hand so that it wouldn’t be disturbed by my final reaction. I wanted just what the driver longed in face that he wasn’t the recipient of her lips: to have a clear view of her head as it elevated and lowered ingesting from little to all of me with each movement.

I could feel the wet of her mouth tightly wound around me, soaking every bit of my recent complaints about her. I almost melted away from the warmth of her mouth, from the manner in which she moved her head about seeking a better angle in which to engulf me. I didn’t know whether I rathered look at her lips around me, or listen as she slobbered on me. The many noises that attest to the finest of accomplishments.

The overly concerned driver swerved quickly causing me to pop out of her mouth, just as I was about to thank her with splashes of desire. The man nearly caused an accident trying to reach over the divider to have a better look at her work. She laughed again, as if it were all comedic. But this time she looked up at him, and asked him to look at her through the rear-view mirror. He did, just to see her finger cleaning the saliva from her lips. She was sure to trace all around her supple lips. He sighed just as I had been…

She resumed, but this time not with her mouth, rather her hands. I quickly thought of friends and their stories, and the desire to culminate my actions as they did theirs. Yet, something changed, perhaps due to the rear seat lights coming on, a move by the driver to have a view at the remaining event. She jerked me, not hard, but gently. Rubbing on the tip ever so slowly with her index and heart finger, even releasing saliva on the tip for further lubrication.

Her Hand, His CrotchAt that moment, when her saliva splashed half on the tip and half on her hand, I, just as slowly, released my lust. It was a slow flow. Not the type that shoots rushing away from the encounter, but the type that stays behind for a more appropriate encounter. She continued to stroke me, bringing her hand lower down to the base for a better squeeze against the urethra ensuring that all I had to give, did spill onto her hand.

I watched as the fluids escaping from me covered her fingers. Slowly moving from the urethra out to the head, onto her index, heart, ring and pinky fingers. I washed the thick fluid caress her hand in delight to have been freed. They then came to a stop. We had arrived at our destination, but she was still stroking, still gently. The driver now looked over the seat, intruding with questions of what she was about to do, not to leave any remains on his clean backseat.

She asked him to pay careful attention. She lifted her skirt, her white undergarment visible to all. She ran her hand just about every desirable part she found. Looked at him, and asked if that was clean enough, then turned in my direction and proceeded to lick her hand clean of any residue. She was audacious, even leaned over to ensure that I, too, was as clean now as when I entered the vehicle. She took a picture of her lips, salty, soaked, lipstick smudged all over, forwarded it to my mobile with a caption that read “Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey”. We exited the taxicab in sheer ecstasy. I knew that this night was just starting.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey”, I replied. “In the restaurant, I’ll present you with your gift.”

Author: jibarican

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