introductions without words

Life is a fast-paced stroll for her, complete with packaged stability, shiny successes, and specific morals. She is a bundle of write-home-about. Lately though, little things have been grating at her nerves, and even taking the same path to work makes her temples tighten in frustration. She has discovered boredom.

She decided that maybe she needed to get out more. When she went into the dating service a few days after the onset, the conversation had started out formal, specific, a planned dinner. Somehow, the truth had leaked out in subtle comments or body language or eyes, and the woman on the other side of the table was just sassy enough to openly suggest this. This. This arrangement. This.

The room is velvet, impenetrable, thick, weighted darkness. The eyes cannot adjust, cannot begin seeing sudden greys and shifting shadows, cannot decode walls, shapes, speckles of light. The room is open space, closed space, pure void. Music is playing, soft enough for mystery, loud enough to melt away any whispers. She is not sure why she is here, but something in the space between her thighs says it is right.

The others here will not know that her hair is a wave of fire when the sun sinks into it, or just how her clothes flow over her hips, or that her green eyes seem to be open spring fields when she's just awakening in the morning. The darkness ensures privacy. If they pass each other on the street later in the afternoon, they will only see a stranger's glance.

She walks forward cautiously, not sure when she will stumble into something or someone. A few steps in, and then she does. A couch, or a chair, and when she moves her hands along its edges, it feels cozy, and long enough that it must be a couch. She considers just sitting, waiting, letting someone else do the clumbsy dance to find her. But, she is tired of lull, she wants action, and so she continues on.

The floor beneath her feet is hard, cool, smooth. She walks, like a drugged ballerina, several extended and cautious steps, and makes it to the opposite wall without any detours or bumps. She then walks along the perimeter of the room, her fingers running lightly along the wallpaper, probably full of dainty flowers and faded innocence and gossipy chats over iced tea. After about twelve or maybe twenty steps, she doesn't know, she ventures out again. This time, she kneels and begins crawling. Maybe she can cover more space, have less restraint in movement; sore knees instead of delay.

After a minute or two, her right hand touches fabric in its voyage forward. Thick, silken, a blanket of some kind. Left hand forward and the tips of her fingers touch skin, soft and slightly crinkled, a foot's arch. She allows her hand to flow up, the hardness of the ankle, the smooth muscles of the calf. She leans forward, rests her face against the skin, smells summer, honeysuckle and breeze. Her lips touch lightly as she moves upward, meeting the oval of the knee, the light indention to its side, the fullness of a thigh. She feels the woman's body shift forward, and then fingers brushing her hair, eyebrows, cheeks, somehow graceful and airy.

She thinks of this as the introduction, in place of the awkwardly confident hand shake, direct gaze, zig-zagging chat. Instead: my skin smells like the cool wind of winter through pines, yours is summer's kiss, both are smooth and palpable. Nice to meet you, and now, into the tangy and coy, a scoot away from tease and mystery.

The woman wiggles down a few inches, the gap between lips and cunt now only centimeters, breaths. Her own hesitation lasts only a second; afterall, she folded up her inhibitions and reservations when she accepted the invitation, no need to pull out that suitcase now for holy indignation. She wants to taste.

Long licks over labia, like lollipops, or maybe a dripping ice cream cone, or perhaps just a girl that smells like flowers and is spread out on a dark floor, wanting. Minutes stretch and compress as she licks, moves skin and flesh into her mouth for sucks, teeth tugs, wet kisses. The outer labia is plump, the inner like stretched silk blowing and sticking to the tide, the clitoris a little lump that fit perfectly between puckered lips, the entrance small yet gaping, as if a dripping and slightly opened doorway, a beach invitation. When she slides two fingers in, feeling, pressing, exploring muscular and spongy decor, the woman moves her thighs and legs in against her cheeks and back of her head, and she is simply: mouth and hands; tongue, teeth, fingers; an equation of movement and sultry force.

As the climatic seizure tumbles into the woman's body, she feels something else: breath near her own cunt, from a mouth and body she hasn't yet met. She accepts the gift of delicate and demanding precision, the digging in of lust, and she thrusts her hips backward, pressing herself to this woman's mouth, allowing electricity to furnace within her seams, a different kind of introduction.