Fingerprints

Dee sprawled heavily on top of him, her back sweaty and slow to cool. Her face was tucked under his jaw, where she could hear his moist panting in her right ear, feel his chest rising and falling. She could feel the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart, though it was still not as fast as hers. His erection was gradually softening in the quivering clutches of her vagina. The only muscle she moved was down there, trying to hold onto the moment.

But her carpet-scrubbed knees were complaining too loudly to ignore. Dee sighed and rolled off onto her back. She looked over at Paul. His shrinking cock flopped to the side in that almost pathetic post-coital dying animal look, erotically shiny with her juices and his semen. It bobbed, feebly. A trace of white still oozed from its tip in a final death gasp. Dee closed her eyes again.

"That was good," he said to the ceiling. His hand reached over to fiddle his fingers in her flattened pubic hair. They drifted lower until they grazed her upthrust clitoris, still peeking out of the folds, but she squeezed her legs together and pushed his hand away.

"No," she grumbled, "Too sensitive." He grunted and lay still again. She could hear her own heartbeat thumping in her ears. Another apartment door slammed somewhere down the hallway. Dee's fingers found herself still puffed wide and pouty. His semen, thick and sticky, was beginning to leak out.

It had been a few days, so there was more than usual. She liked that. It was the gift that kept on giving, a sloppy reminder for hours after he left her of their all too brief connection. And the more he ejaculated inside of her meant the less likely it had been that he'd had sex with his wife since the last time Dee had seen him.

Paul cleared his throat. "I can't be here on Friday." He paused. Dee remained silent. She always wanted him on Fridays. The weekends were insufferably long without Fridays. "It's my birthday. Jodie is -- we're having a party. She wants me home early."

"Oh." There was nothing else to say.

"I've got to go," Paul said in an offhanded voice. Dee watched him rise unsteadily to his feet and head toward the bathroom. She knew that "go" probably meant "leave." He'd been in her apartment for almost two hours. He was no doubt expected at home.

It had been a year now. A year since they first had sex that spring afternoon on the living room floor in her apartment. It had been a day very much like this one. In fact, Dee mused, today might even be close to a first anniversary. Sometime in early May, wasn't it? She couldn't remember exactly. She had never been very sentimental about those kinds of things.

Yes, it probably was early May. She remembered a warm California sun, a typically cloudless day. They had played hooky from work, sneaking away in the middle of the afternoon to swim in the large pool at her apartment complex. They both probably knew what was really going to happen. Dee had certainly known.

It wasn't as though she had seduced him. No, he had been ready and willing. She'd met Paul when she started her first job after a Master's at Berkeley. He was flirty in an attractive, non-threatening way. Light brown hair, thin and starting to recede. Startlingly blue eyes. A couple of inches shy of six feet. His being married didn't bother her. At least not back then it hadn't.

No, they had both been ready and willing. They'd retreated into the still air of her apartment after the swim, and there she had accepted his unoriginal invitation of a back massage on a damp towel on the living room floor. Before long she was on her back, naked and legs unashamedly splayed wide apart, and Paul was licking the last remnants of chlorinated water from her breasts and the rapidly forming musky nectar from her vulva.

Dee was proud of her breasts, 26-year-old firm and almost softball-sized, with medium-small tan nipples that hardened easily. She was neither skinny nor plump, neither obsessed with controlling her weight nor oblivious to it those times when it crept upwards. She was a tomboy. Her dark-blonde hair was cropped just above her shoulders, her legs strong from running, her arms and shoulders from swimming. She was comfortable in her skin. And she loved how men reacted to it.

Paul had reacted like most men. He had an experienced mouth that had lingered only briefly on her neck and breasts before finding its way straight down, following the faint downy path between her bellybutton and her curly brown thatch of pubic hair. There he had stayed, swabbing her labia apart with a flattened tongue, alternatively prodding fingers and tongue into her melting vagina and not quite often enough saying hello to her clitoris.

They seemed to be a matched set from the beginning, Dee had thought. Paul loved to give her head. She loved to receive it. Neither of them seemed to feel the need for much talk. They communicated instead through gestures and motions, sighs and moans. He'd learned quickly that first afternoon. She had intruded her fingers to interrupt his mouth, strumming her clit in a firm side-to-side flurry, then had held her lips apart and angled her hips and had encouraged his mouth to mimic her instruction. And mimic he did, until she was inflamed and flowing and climbing her way to a climax.

But he had been too eager that first day and still unable to read all her signals, and before she'd reached her mountaintop he was moving to the next step, up on his knees between her thighs, his Speedo stripped and flung atop her own a few feet away. His erection curved high and hard, his testicles hanging asymmetrically.

All too quickly he'd covered her body with his. The moment was aroused and rushed and awkward. The cool skin of his thighs pressed against her warmer flesh. Dee had strained her legs apart, bending her knees, her hands just below her kneecaps to hold herself open for him. He had smeared his shaft in her creamy slickness, and she had tried to adjust her body to accommodate to his angle. His knees had nudged up and back on that damp towel, searching to find the right position with her body and its unwaif-like hips that was so new to him.

And then, suddenly, he was inside her. At first an electric inch, then a brief retreat followed by a deeper thrust. Dee always held her breath at initial penetration, held her body still and receptive, relishing that invasion of hard flesh. She remembered how Paul had stopped, then leaned forward and just kissed her, long and lingering. It had been the longest kiss of that first afternoon, and it had surprised her how he was able to pause what had at the time seemed so frantic and to just focus on her mouth. She had tasted herself on him, inhaling her scent on his mustache.

Then, without breaking the kiss, he had driven the rest of the way up inside her, until his pubic bone pressed the weight of his hips through hers to pin her ass against the hard floor. She couldn't breathe. Dee had broken the kiss to pant, to find a place for her hands on his shoulders, his back, his behind. His thick shaft had deliciously stretched a vagina that hadn't felt a cock in more than six months.

But they didn't click right away, that first time. She'd felt out of sync, out of control. Falling behind. Paul was breathing hard, his cock already doing that thrust-twitch-stop thrust-twitch-stop that signaled how distressingly close he was to an orgasm. Dee had struggled to get back to where she was when his mouth had so abruptly left her pussy, and that was made all the more difficult by Paul's irregular rhythm.

"Wait," she had gasped. "Stop." She had pushed at his chest with her fingertips. His cock, jerking involuntarily, reluctantly retreated. Not yet, not yet, too fast, she had thought. "Let me be on top," she'd told him.

Paul had smiled and acquiesced, withdrawing completely, then had flopped down beside her on his back. His penis was an arch of glistening flesh, with an inch of angry red just below the head. Throbbing. Bobbing up and down. Alive.

She had straddled his hips. She had reached down to find his shaft, furrowed its mushroom head up and down between her labia to assure herself that she was properly spread and wet, and, closing her eyes, had lowered herself on his erection. She had impaled herself on him with a directness that had made him audibly groan. She loved to hear a man groan.

Dee's reverie was broken by the sound of water running in the shower. That was a clear sign that Paul was leaving. Her right forefinger traced the sensitive edge of her inner labia, from bottom to top, first one side then the other, then briefly checked the still gaping path to her vagina.

Dee smiled to herself and remembered back to that first time, remembered how it was so much like this very afternoon. How she'd ridden him, how she'd mashed her raw openness against his pubic bone, how her body had swirled with the heady sensations of a roughly diddled clit matched with a stuffed vagina. How she was happy. How she was being fucked.

How she was fucking him.

And how she had found her rhythm with him. Back and forth, a relentless grinding pressure of her clit on him, an occasional small sideways movement to stretch her vagina and remind herself that this rock-hard, warm male flesh was inside her body, stirring her soul. Her clitoris had scrubbed against his pussy-juice soaked pubic hair. She'd always loved that feeling, loved the sensations, the bonding.

Dee had been in her private universe, fucking this man's cock. She'd allowed him into her body, though perhaps not into her mind, at least not just yet. She'd used him, used his erection, to scratch her intimate itches. He always lasted longer this way, she smiled to herself. She could ride his body and soar into the clouds. And sometimes twice.

Dee remembered how she'd opened her eyes and looked down at him. Paul had been flushed. His hair was tousled and sweat-stuck on his forehead. His hands had found her hips, holding her with an anxious firmness as if he was afraid she was going to escape. She had captured those eyes and caressed her own breasts, kneading them roughly and pinching her nipples, presenting herself to him, teasing him. His cock had jumped inside of her.

Even though pinned down by her weight, Paul had struggled to rock his hips, to stroke himself in her and find some measure of friction, but Dee wasn't having any of that then. She had only pressed down even harder. Paul's eyes had looked almost in pain. Dee had rewarded him with the tightest clench she could muster with her vagina. It would have to be enough.

Paul's lips had pursed. Again and again she had squeezed and squirmed herself on him, working her hips, until finally his eyes had closed and she knew he was going to come. His fingers clawed into her hips and his body struggled to power upward to bury himself as deep as he could manage. She'd met him with her own downward pressure, with her full weight behind it, rewarding the both of them with one final fraction of an inch more of his flesh.

And there they'd hung, suspended. Dee had felt his cock stiffen into steel and then, finally, those magical spasms began. She had clutched herself around the pulsing root of his shaft, knowing each spasm was delivering a splash of white fire. She'd felt the tip quivering gloriously high up inside her. She had felt the spreading warm rush of his fluid as he emptied his lust inside her.

And when he had finished, when his spasms had died down and his body was no longer rigid, he had left her sloppy slick and fucked full, and it was her turn. Dee had closed her eyes to concentrate and to begin anew the grinding pressure. Paul, to his credit, had held his hips raised high. Now it was all business. It was all her.

She had arched her back and twisted her hips to prod his shaft against that old familiar spot, her Old Faithful. And when she'd found it, when she'd felt stuffed and goaded by that male stiffness, it had all come crashing over her, splitting her head apart while her insides convulsed. Dee had heard herself grunting happily at every pleasure spasm, every involuntary circular grasp of his impaled penis, continuing to rock her hips and twist her nipples and suspend herself there on the crest, hopefully forever.

But it was never forever, and when she had returned to Earth, still making those little circles on him, Dee had opened her eyes and had given Paul a large smile. "Hi," she'd said, with just a hint of self-consciousness. For the first time that afternoon she'd felt just the slightest bit shy and vulnerable. Not because of where his cock was, not because he had seen and touched and tasted her body. Because he had seen her climax.

And one year later they were still in that apartment, still tearing off each other's clothes. Two, sometimes three times a week he'd come to her, usually in the late afternoon, almost always on her living room floor. A year, she thought to herself. She wondered if Paul thought about anniversaries. Or thought about anniversaries with her.

Where was all this going, Dee asked herself. Now he knew just how to bring her off with his mouth, with those long buildup licks and, at just the right moment, that furious tongue making figure eights on her clitoral shaft. And when she had enough of that and needed the primal feel of his erection buried inside her, sometimes after one orgasm, sometimes after two, she would ride him just as she did that first May afternoon, until he would cry out her name and explode. Sometimes before her, sometimes after. Sometimes together.

And, like today, like a hundred other times, he would empty himself into her body in those long, sticky pulses, leaving her with a part of him that would ooze out for hours as a lingering memory, hours after the apartment door closed behind him, after he went home to his wife. It was all she woke up with in the morning.

Dee heard the shower turn off. Slowly, with a curious fatigue, she made her way to the bathroom. His semen, their comingled soup, had seeped back between her buttocks, and by the time she was standing in the open doorway of the small steamy bathroom, she could feel it creeping down the insides of both thighs.

Paul had dried himself with her favorite blue towel. It was still hanging loosely over his shoulders. He stood next to the shower, looking down, his hair wild and untamed. He was inspecting his penis.

"Looking for fingerprints?" she asked him in a quiet voice. Paul stared back at her with a puzzled look on his face. She turned and walked away.