Permission

However, when permission is granted all those anxieties melt away. With the permission to pleasure granted, the moment is clearly defined and can become undeniably selfish, and without any qualification. The one gives the other full rights to enjoy. A willing objectification of the self. Not a disregard for or diminishment of self, but a consenting gift. And in this clarity lies the freedom to use the other for their pleasure with neither apprehension nor anxiety. The kind of freedom that, when all is said and done, elicits a sincere thank you.

They gave permission to each other at every opportunity. He loved licking her pussy, loved the silken feel against his tongue. Loved the way she would grind her cunt into his face as she built towards her orgasm. Loved the way her body responded as he slid a finger, then two inside her to extend her pleasure. And he loved giving her permission to just cum. And that is how he often said it to her even, "I want you to cum. Just cum. Just cum all over my tongue." With that she would settle in, forget all the insecurities and just let herself go. Let herself moan as she wanted to, let herself writhe as she felt like, in short let herself fully cum. Unabated release, and she love it. And he felt he enabled it. Satisfied.

Permission like this was a staple of their fucking. She would beg for him to cum on her tits or face. And he would selfishly enjoy it. Permission. He would beg for her to soak his cock with her cum as he fucked her. And she would greedily do so. Permission. She would plead with him to fuck her from behind. Permission. He would beseech her ride his dick and toy her clit with her vibrator so she could get herself off because he knew she loved that. Permission. This permission was everywhere. And quite often it ended up with them cumming together. He or she just wanted to feel the other cum while fucking them, to get them off. And the fulfillment of this craving would prove too much as the other started up the hill to climax. All too often (as if that were a bad thing), watching the other get off in that unashamed delirium, the other would, too, simultaneously.

This permission made their fucking exemplary. At the same time It brought their individual desires to the forefront, and satisfied the other in return.

XI.

The coffee-time was coming to a close. All the while he was trying to figure out a way to get awkwardly close to her, making kissing her all the more possible. But he failed. He could never maneuver effectively in this public place to set that desire into motion.

They walked out to their respective cars. They said goodbye. They hugged. It lasted two fractions of second longer than a normal goodbye hug should. Those two fractions of second said everything. They wanted each other. She wanted him to kiss her right there. Don't ask, just kiss. He wanted to. But couldn't. Courage waned in both of them, and the hug broke. Too soon. She opened her door. A forced awkward laugh recognized the unspoken lust.

Not a single word of fucking was even spoken. Both knew that they would return to their sexually charged on-line chats; all the while just wanting each other more. All the while thinking, "Why didn't we just fuck?"

She drove away as did he, feeling much less nervous about their meeting than they had anticipated. The rules were followed. They didn't fuck. They didn't touch. They could be proud. Not five minutes later his text to her read simply read, "Thank you."

"No, thank you," her's responded.

Simple. But in those messages everything was said. Permission.