Like the woman I am seeing now she did not want me taking pictures of her. Worse would have been pictures of us together. I played by the rules because I wanted her to be my rule, for us to be each other’s rule. So this is all I have, the only evidence of our time together. A couple of pictures of the windows and ceiling, taken from her mattress as she lay next to me.
The fan blew cool air across my bare November body, cock still hard from the last hour’s fucking, harder still for want of more. After taking these photos I would hump the side of her leg until she woke. Her sweet smile swerved into breath, turned serious, then became a long, deep kiss.
I grasped her thick, stringy hair with one hand, pressing the palm of my other to her face. She moved her hands to my stiff cock and anxious balls, guiding me first to her mouth, then to her home. Once inside her again we both gasped, her eyes looking into mine with an accusatory shock, as if asking “Are you really fucking me?”
I remember those eyes, the gaping mouth, the momentarily stunted breath. Every time I entered her was like our first time when it must have been our fortieth for the weekend. Our “humpteenth”, as I joked.
Her cunt never lost its tightness, never loosened its grip on me, however hard and deep I dug. That momentary look of shock and alarm sometimes gave way to tears, other times to a subconscious nodding of her head, reassuring me the fucking was good, however hard I thrusted.
Two nights earlier she had said she did not want me staying the night, then slammed the door in front of me, refusing to let me leave. She had said “No funny business,” then kissed me with all her heart.
When first I unbuttoned her shirt and touched her breasts I felt like the discoverer, not of hers but of the woman’s body. No other man could have experienced this miracle of sustenance, this succor, nor felt as nourished as did I in our weekend hours of sweet, ridiculous passion.
The building shook from the force of trucks roaring past on the highway just outside the windows. When she wrapped her legs around me that shaking seemed to cease. Was it her shaking that absorbed it? Or was it we who, all along, made the building shake, even when we did not move?
These photos are all I have of our nights and mornings together. I see echoes of her bare back and ass in the set of blinds on the right. I see light rising from her backbones, commanding me to turn her body over for the true sunrise. How that cunt made my mouth water. I have never touched or tasted anything so sweet.
I stroked her slowly, moving my mouth from breast to breast, savoring their taste and texture, regarding them as nothing less than miracles.
Her body jolted, then tightened the instant my tongue touched her clit. Her face looked like it had been slapped. We held each other’s hands. She pressed hers onto the back of my head, pushing me inside her, moaning quietly, almost crying through every second of these long, countless minutes.
Her body lay mostly still, in concentration and fascination with sensations traveling from my tongue into her cunt, and lighting up every cell of her brain, every atom of her flesh. The legs would slowly move, rising, feet resting on my back, legs closing around my head until her breathing seemed to stop.
Her ass started to shake. Her hands gently slapped the back of my head. Her legs started to writhe and kick at the air. Her doleful, sweet moaning sounds gave way to “Oh!” and “Oh yes!” Her head turned from side to side, face locked in an expression that could be interpreted as confusion or bewilderment over sensations seemingly never experienced, however many times we had reached this point.
The middle of her body started jerking, a hammer inside her pounding. Her shouts of “Oh!” became shorter, and sharper. My tongue stayed where it belonged as I slipped in two, then three fingers to fill the space my tongue could not. Her juices covered my face, her taste filled my throat.
I have felt forced to lie about my encounters with this woman, describing our time together as platonic and forgettable. The truth is we fucked like loving, loved animals. She is gone now but I can never forget. My cock hardens for her still as I type and reread these words.
That was our lost weekend. She got married two weeks later.