First Night Smackdown

We might be mistaken but we don’t care. They have not condemned us, judged us, sanctioned us, for who we are. Never. What they have done is encourage us in our dreams, in our hopes, and yes, even in our desires. Nor have they hidden their own feelings from us. Mama Fred does not always sleep in the cottage. We know this, too.His strength ebbs after his orgasm and he sways slightly and extends his hand to the tree trunk beside him. We stand without speaking as we catch our breath and our racing hearts slow. We smile at each other. He continues to milk himself gently of every last drop and its attendant pleasure. I rest my hand on his flank.On impulse I lean forward to lick the side of his sweaty neck. He shudders, again, but his shudder somehow transforms itself into a giggle. He’s ticklish in spots and I know where they are.My tongue finds his salt, his sweet, mixed together in a way that is his alone. I’d know his taste anywhere, night or day.He’s sweaty and he’s sticky yet his. Embracing me in an act of tenderness, tender fingers slid down the canyon of my spine. Its juxtaposition threw me off my stride. In those earlier years, her frantic body was a match for my attentions. She would entice me for more, yelp hard and her talons always left their mark when she climaxed. The force of those deep muscular convulsions tipped me over the edge and we would ride the storm together. I yearned for those days, collapsed as a mess of clammy limbs, sweaty and covered in the musk of our congress. She was nowhere near close to that. Now, we barely got out of breath. I knew she felt that tell-tale swell because she went in for the kill – my nipples. Two thumbs assaulted them, hardwired to my loins, and my hips stuttered.“Come… come…”Too much strength in her voice, her matrimonial duties performed; my time was up. She knew it; I knew it, and that apathetic tension became a feeble ripple of spasms. Right on cue, I withdrew and her hand grasped me. Eyes.
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