Candor in the dark;

He walked into the bedroom, and she was waiting for him. There were no rose petals or other extraneous things that would make cleaning up a chore, but she was dressed in a bathing suit that was revealing and, if possible, sexier than her nakedness. Her chestnut hair flowed over her back like a dark waterfall, glistening in the artificial gloom. There was a candle glowing in the corner, but other than that the only illumination was from a track light trained on a hologram of a Civil War era cannon.

"Hello stranger," she said quietly. He smiled and kissed her, not absently but not in any exaggerated passion. He was lukewarm to her current affections, and needed the encouragement. "How's Samson?" he asked. She made a face, and remembered the reason he had such a low libido. He had caught her in an affair three months ago. The trust had been damaged, but there was a depth of love to his attentions that went beyond her indiscretion. He had responded by buying her a puppy, and naming it after the biblical hero known for his dalliance with a woman of expensive virtue. He had not neglected to share with her that he had not named him Hosea (who married one,) or David (because he felt it was an inappropriate name for a dog,) but felt that the name of her lover would have been too specific in serving it for breakfast.

"I fed him," she replied, "but I thought of YOU when I did it." He could see that she was nettled, and regretted it. Dwelling on bitterness was not the way to have an enjoyable evening. "Do we still have that bottle of Burgundy left over from New Years?" he asked as an olive branch. She replied in the affirmative moving to open it in anticipation of his wishes.

He knew that alcohol impaired performance, but a little eased inhibitions... he struck a careful balance. For her part, inebriation was much more a part of a pleasurable evening, and she regretted the low alcohol content. He selected one of her longer play-lists on her iPod, and set it playing through the stereo. He had her trust, and the inequities of consumption did not cause any doubts.

Her excuse was Swedish massage. As she rubbed his shoulders and worked him over, he became aware that, what her body did for him by simple observation, she needed contact to obtain. She was rubbing him down like a horse, but she derived more pleasure from it than he did. He soon reciprocated, and the swim suit was an early casualty of war. The weather outside was quite crisp, and the gas fireplace made a pleasant flicker, without observably detracting from the enjoyment of the evening.

Their mutual attentions had started languidly, but he did not defer to get to the point. Arousal might be like a buffet, but there was no point waiting for a prayer to get started on an act of congress. They had already had their first encounter when he spoke. "Your boobs are small, like my high school sweetheart's... did you know that I have never had a more intense desire, and urgent longing, for a grown woman than my unrequited desires for her affections?"

Her grasp became fierce for a few moments, and she admitted something she rarely articulated in words. "I always wanted bigger ones." He was not ignorant of the virtues of a good rack, but he knew how to allay her worst concerns. "The smaller ones have less fatty tissue to obstruct the avenue of sensation," he responded. She believed him, but honesty governed her interactions with him in conversation, as well as description of physical appreciation.

"Come now. You know how Magicians misdirect the audience while they do another part of the trick unobtrusively elsewhere? Girls can do this to guys without even trying. I've had some success with it myself. A guy walks up, and you know everything about how he dresses, looks, where he came from and where he's going, before his eyes rise above your chin." He smiled, more inwardly than he manifested, but she was able to discern it effortlessly. "Oh yeah... they don't JUST look at our BOOBS!" she said, underscoring her earlier point. He came back better than she anticipated. "Well, sex sells right? Women with insensitive boobs have bigger advertisements! If sex can sell utensils and cookware, why can't it sell sex? That's biologically what they were intended for, right?" She giggled. "Not strictly speaking, but pregnancy might be more challenging without them I'll admit." She paused and then added, "...but if you linger too long over MY sex, in _public_, I'll be creative and motivated about embarrassing you back!"

He responded by turning his oral attentions on the optical stimuli under discussion. His hands were firm and hard, from manipulating tools, and her flesh was yielding to his touch. When he mounted her for pleasure, she cooed, and told him that she wanted him to make it last; her initial urgency now demanded a more enduring performance. While he did not love a challenge in the bedroom like a challenge on the sports pitch, he knew that if she didn't inform his efforts with information as to her desires, they would be badly targeted in application, as well as timing and intensity.

They compromised in a new way. He was seated at the head of the bed, as she accomplished full intro-mission. She spoke in a low guttural. "Give me a hickey right here," she said, indicating her left aureole. His accommodation took the form of attentions to her nipple, and she corrected him soon thereafter. When he got the right idea, she rewarded him with a wiggle and a message from her kegels. Her mons pubis found his pubic process, and it was surprising how much mileage you could get out of a very small reciprocation. His mouth didn't lose its place in the book. She raised his other hand to her other breast. He rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, but, hearkening to the lesson of the opposing user interface, his hand was soon manipulating the whole bosom. He used the nipple as a handle, and, without giving her a titty twister, he moved the breast is slow circles. Her hand at the back of his head controlled the timing of her request that he should attempt to engulf her whole breast with his mouth. "I'm going to see how long I can keep you hard inside me," she explained.

He returned his attentions to darkening the characteristic colored circle at the zenith of her femininity, and she allowed her mind to wander back to one of the more visceral blow-jobs she had ever given. It had not really been pleasant, (he had used his hand to choke her repeatedly, waiting until she needed to breathe, and choosing that moment to interfere with her withdrawal from deep-throat activities,) but the experience had been acid etched on the holographic photo-plate of her mind, and it served to overwhelm the senses. He started to cum, and showed every evidence of losing control. She could have allowed an orderly withdrawal, but this was not the humor of the hour: Her legs coiled around him like a constrictor, and she began to do double duty with her kegels. His dutiful efforts at her breast were the first to go. She responded by wrapping her arms around his head and clinging to him like a limpet mine. His voice rose in... something, she was not quite sure what, but pleasure was the topic of discussion. When he was TOTALLY limp, she timed her own retreat by gripping the base of his dick with the sphincter of her cervix, and "sucking" the cum into her as she released his trapped property. "GOD!" he whimpered.

"You're better than you think," she replied by way of encouragement. "I think that's what _I_ feel like, when you use your thumb on my clit while you make two fingers the differences between the earth and sky and won't let _ME_ go with your other hand!" "Yeah? Well... I'm not sure how often I'll DO it again, if _that's_ what happens!"

The biological trust of oxytocin flowed in her bloodstream. Mixed with her earlier consumption of alcohol, she let her guard down. Pillow talk is famously unguarded, and not even reliably about sex, but sex was the context, and sex was what her blurted confession was about. "I was a virgin until the 9th grade," she began. "I was an ugly duckling, and ALL the other girls in my class had lost it. Even my neighbor had put out. It's not like I didn't WANT to... adolescence was no less a crucible of desire for _me_ than anyone else; the Mayor's son was in my class, and I ratted him out for cheating on a test in the 6th grade. Puberty came and went, with nubile protrusions inadequate to my purposes as he reliably destroyed my nascent hopes from classmate to classmate. My 9th grade Chem teacher was the only person to have mercy on me. He was married, and he knew. I couldn't tear my eyes away, and he got the right reaction when he explained that '...when Blue litmus turns to Red, it's Acidic.' I had long since insulted the hymen manually, and our tutoring developed into a tryst at a no-tell motel. He didn't _need_ the Vaseline he brought, but it made the cherry less like the squeak of a bathtub. You can't believe how many things I remember from that day."

She paused in her telling, but her beau made no such mistake as opening his mouth. He had recovered enough to supply her with a towel for the anticipated wet-spot, and she continued. "I remember how _happy_ I was to feel him put it all the way in, for the first time. Then the surprise at the pleasure available from a bump and grind. Then my little sphincter squeezed, with inexperienced kegels, and a memory for a lifetime of a new avenue to please and gratify myself (and incidentally another,) was born in my mind. I'd given myself orgasms, but, when I had an orgasm generated by another person, my articulation failed to encapsulate my gratitude. Desire mixed with ambition, and I decided to be the giver more than the receiver. He laughed when I suckled at his breast, but he didn't fail to learn. He divined that I was telegraphing my own desires to him, and did it in return. Soon after, I got a diaphragm fitted, and he taught another subject... we were never caught. He said I made him the King of the world, and his wife learned from ME. Do you think that was possible?"

He felt like he had been progressing well with the painting of a garage floor, only to look up and see no avenue toward the exit. His eyes sought hers. "If I did that now, would you learn from the object of MY new desires?" he queried. Her answer betrayed deep trust, but was totally against his expected idea of her conclusion.

"If it improved your appetite? No telling WHAT I'd say." He saw a way to reward her confidence memorably. His tumescence was erect, and he instructed her to mount him reverse-cow-girl. She was amused, and relaxed as he drew her to him. His hand sought her out where her own was more commonly found. His left hand exercised her left nipple, breast and all, and his words directed her left and right hands to abdomen and right breast respectively. When they were positioned, his hand used pressure to announce the commencement of ceremonies. "You tell my dick how it feels with your kegels," he requested, "and I'll tell your clit how it feels with my hand." She couldn't kiss him, and she was powerless to direct his efforts with her hips... her kegels were her sole means of communication. On balance, he was skilled, diligent and thorough.

"This defines feedback," he explained by way of appreciation. Before long she had demonstrated the efficacy of his accomplishments by emulating the reaction of a good receiver with gain turned up too high... and not all of it was fake.

"American innovation triumphs even over the Kama Sutra," she whispered in admiration, when he was finished. Their eyes locked, and he answered an unspoken prayer. "I love you."