THE CONJUGAL VISIT

You’ve been a perfect gentleman up until now, shepherding me around this Sonoma wine festival, recommending this and that, only occasionally touching me, placing your hand lightly on my back to steer me to the next wine tent along your pre-planned route. You’re friendly, talkative, expressive, and I’m enjoying the banter between us, on this, our first real face-to-face. But I’m unsatisfied with the long lines and the small samples, so after listening to the sales schpiel at the fifth stop, I buy us a bottle of Cab Franc and we look for a quiet place to sit and drink it.We spot an empty picnic table under a tree and sit next to each other. It’s partially sunny but unseasonably cool. The stiff breeze is lifting my skirt and the red and white tablecloth is tickling my bare thighs, inciting goosebumps. I’m glad I’m wearing my cashmere sweater to provide some warmth. I’ve got it buttoned up appropriately enough, but I’ve caught you more than once with your eyes at half mast resting on my deep decolletage peeking out from under that third button.  

You pour us each a glass, which we ceremoniously and so British-like clink together in a toast, although these are complimentary glasses, thick, and not likely to crack under even the roughest handling of the bourgeoisie. Don’t get me wrong, I hate snobs of any color. But I’m guessing if a Ford F150 pulled up to a restaurant in Sonoma, there would be a fart-like collective gasp expelled from the elitists at the wine bar.

We commence with the sipping and the smiling, but eventually our eyes meet and hold, our minds meld, and the talking abruptly stops. It’s apparent we’ve just entered Phase 2 of the conjugal visit, and there’s no point delaying the purpose of the trip. It’s not like we don’t know each other – intimately.

I move my right hand to your left thigh and squeeze before I slide it towards your groin. You respond, manspreading for me so I can get to what I want more easily, and I palm your limp pistol and reach my fingers lower to massage your boys. You lift my right leg over your left and rest your warm hand on my upper thigh, drumming it with your fingers. Then, like heat seeking missiles, those fingers lock on the damp target and your middle finger slides under the elastic edge of my panties and penetrates my quivering quim.

All of a sudden the world mutes, and everything and everyone beyond our picnic table blurs. It’s as if I’m stricken with hearing loss accompanied by severe near-sightedness. The only thing audible is our elevated breathing, and the only thing in focus is the burgeoning Bob Dole I’ve brought forth beneath your blue jeans. I want it in my mouth so badly, I begin to salivate. I suck in air to keep from drooling.

An obscure stranger raises his glass to us as he walks by. Perhaps the ferocity of our pheromones have wafted his way. I attempt to raise my glass to him in response but I’m trembling so terribly, I have to put the glass back down before I can complete the gesture. I feel your right hand rest on mine to steady the glass and I turn my gaze back to you. You squeeze my hand hard against the base of the glass, demanding my attention before you begin to penetrate me again with the long middle finger of your left hand. And just when I think I might actually cum right here in the middle of a crowded field, filled to capacity with cabernet-captivated winos, you extricate your paw from my voracious Venus Fly Trap and run the randy tip of your middle finger around the rim of my wine glass, then stick that finger in your mouth.

My heart stops. I’m going to faint. I’m going to slip from the seat and slide under the table and plant my face in your lap. I don’t care what the consequences are. If I don’t get your Moby Dick in my mouth right now, I’m going to scream blue bloody MURDER!

You’re smiling. You like the way this wine weekend is turning out. It’s apparent you have a power over me you weren’t expecting, and that gives you great pleasure.

Is it my imagination or is the sky darkening too quickly, like the universe is speeding up this scene. The wine tents are flapping and snapping. Folks are gathering their chairs and blankets and rushing towards the ocean of parked vehicles. “Holy shit,” you say, “Look what’s coming.” I follow your gaze, and see the wall of rain about to press its power into us. You take my hand in one hand and grab the two glasses in the other. I reach for the half empty bottle of wine, not taking the time to re-cork it, and we dash towards your camper van. You get the side door of the van open and I crawl in on all fours. Despite the shitnado swirling around us, I notice you take just one moment to enjoy the view up my skirt. And I’m thinking I may have some power of my own.

You step in after me and slide the door shut, just as the curtain of water wraps the vehicle and the wind almost lifts us from the grass.

“Man that was close,” I say, a little shaken. I‘m sitting on the van floor now, removing my boots. You sit in a captain’s chair and do the same.

I wonder if you’ll offer me another glass of wine. That would be a mistake. I’m pretty sure we’ve just entered Phase 3 of the conjugal visit, and I certainly don’t want to take the edge off the experience. But surprisingly, you don’t offer, and I know for sure we are on the same wavelength.

You stand and pull me to you and kiss me for the first time. It quickly crescendos from a delicate brush of my lips to a frantic tonsil tickler, and I’m reminded how dangerous kissing can be. I pull back and press my hands against your chest to slow down the action. I can feel your heartbeat racing up my arms but thankfully, you step back and put some space between us. I’m guessing you’re fighting to compose yourself, determined to make this trip, which you arranged, worth my while.

You ask me if I like the van, and now that I’m taking it all in, I say, yes I do. I didn’t really get a good look at the interior from the front seat when you picked me up at the airport, but it’s a quality vehicle. The layout is pretty standard, but I’m intrigued by the mirror trim. It covers the narrow closet door and surrounds the queen-sized bed. I’m guessing you paid extra for that extravagance. I turn to ask you what this seemingly unnecessary addition has cost you. You pull me to you and wrap me in your arms and say,

“The dealers threw it in as an incentive.”

I welcome your lie, because I understand the dynamics of our non-relationship, and compared to the anarchy of Mother Nature’s minions storming the metal barricades of the ubiquitous Land Rovers and various versions of environmentally-friendly, coal-powered electric vehicles surrounding this camper van, I prefer what I can predict and control.

I wrap my arms around you and we waltz to the rhythm of the wind and rain. You nibble tenderly at my earlobe, and when I respond with a tug on your zipper, you dance me around and backwards towards the closet door. You take your sweet time inching my skirt up to my waist, and I know you’re looking over my shoulder at my ass in that mirror. I wrap my left leg around your calf and grind up against you a little while you work my panties down around my upper thighs. Unexpectedly, you give my plump white ass a SMACK, then look at me with concern and say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you or hurt you.” I assure you I liked it and ask for one more SPANK on the opposite cheek. You smile and comply, and my fleshy bottom tingles as the blood rushes to the surface and reddens me.

“Do you want to watch?” you ask as you face me to the mirror and press your hips against my ass. I nod yes, and reach behind me to tease your trouser trombone back to life. I know you’ve been waiting patiently to get your mitts on my money makers, but once again you show restraint, slowly wrapping your hands around and across the soft cashmere, almost like you’re petting a kitten. You unfasten the next few buttons of the sweater with practiced precision, then work the sweater down and under my push-up bra. My pink nipples are just under the edge of the fabric and you gently coax them into view and roll them in your fingertips. My head falls back against your shoulder and you lift my left leg and place my socked foot onto the bed before moving that left hand back into picnic table position, tormenting my tinkleflower before pushing your middle finger up deep inside that deadend street.

I’m groaning and moaning and I think I hear you say “Damn you’re tight,” but I can barely hear us for the wind and rain whip-slapping the vehicle, and the crack of thunder immediately following the ever-increasing lightning strikes. You take your right hand from my breast and open a little drawer next to the closet and expose a stash of condoms, some lube, and a couple of blunts, and I think oh yeah, he’s done this more than once, but I don’t care. There’s no commitment here, and no relationship, except the inappropriate one we forged in a chat room that hooked us up across the 3,000-mile expanse between the Pacific Coast Highway and AIA.

I lean forward and brace myself against the closet door, waiting while you unzip yourself and unleash your Leader of the Sack. Your jeans sag to your knees. You tear open a condom and I imagine you rolling it along that blue steel that is about to fill me. Bent over as I am and with my left leg hoisted, I brace myself for that first strike, knowing it might hurt, but you surprise me, hugging me to you tenderly. Our eyes meet by way of reflection in the mirror and you smile gently before teasing me apart and slowly working your way into my swollen center. It’s frickin’ glorious and we groan, once again almost unheard for the storm raging outside. Your arm is around my waist holding me in place while you thrust up and into me. When your hand once again grips my heaving breast and scissors the nipple, my knees begin to buckle. When you bite down hard on my neck, I begin to fall from your arms.

It’s obvious we can’t complete the jigsaw puzzle this way, and so you gently persuade me onto my hands and knees on the bed. My casaba melons dangle from my sweater and you give them another pinch from behind before hoisting my skirt even higher. You step back and direct me to spread my legs wider and when I do, you reel in the witness of my pink punani – it reminds you of a juicy ripe peach.  

“Arch your back,” you say as you inch up behind me on your knees and push down on my spine to raise my hips. This time you enter aggressively and the entire length and girth of your beef baton fills me with surprise and joy. And then something interesting happens. While you pump yourself into me deeper and deeper, your hands on my hips, your eyes laser focused on my ass, you lose yourself in the glory of it, and all of a sudden you realize you’re about to surrender control and cum, and you’re not sure where I am in all of this because you can’t hear me expressing myself. All you know is that you’re not rubbing me in the right place and I’m not rubbing myself, so the chance I’m going to accompany you on your launch to Mars is slim to none.

“I need a minute,” you say, pinching yourself off at the base and stepping back off the bed and backing in to a captain’s chair and falling into it. I’m still on my hands and knees and I turn to smile at you. You’ve got your Percy in your palm and you’re breathing hard. And at that moment, we both realize the power has shifted from you to me.

“Get on your back, honey,” you say, “and masturbate for me.” But I’ve been waiting too long for this opportunity, so I shake my head no, and crawl over to you on my knees.

“Let’s get these off of you,” I respond as I work your jeans from your legs. “I want that off as well,” I add, tugging at the tip of the condom. You roll the condom off and as you do, I reach into that drawer and pull out some lube. I remove my sweater and unhook my bra and my golden globes tumble from their confinement. I squirt a generous amount of lube into my hands and rub it on my mondo maracas but mostly in between them, and you guess correctly what’s going to happen next. I surround your cock with my 38c howitzers and stroke you with them, as I pinch my nipples and pull them away from my body. They contract into hard painful pebbles but I welcome the sensation.

You’re on a hair trigger, gripping the armrests of the captain’s chair with both hands, white-knuckling it, unable to tear your eyes from this porno that you find yourself featured in. You know this is risky business. You could blow the whole wine weekend right here if you’re not extremely careful. Nonetheless, you allow me take you into my mouth, all the way, and you run your hands through my silky sun-bleached hair as I bob up and down, stroking you from the base and then forcing your legs apart and tickling your balls with my tongue. For you, it’s agony and ecstasy at the same time – it feels so good. But once again, you are about to lose it. I taste your pre-cum on my tongue and enjoy the power I’ve stolen from you.

A crash of thunder snaps you out of it.

“Stop PLEASE!” you demand, pushing me away. I sit back on my heels and smile at you, my chin and chesticles shiny with the menthol lube.

“My turn?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes, and you nod and smile. I remove my skirt and lay on the bed and you prepare to dine at the Y, happy to refocus your energy. I’ve been laughing watching you struggle to maintain yourself. But the laughter ends the moment you clamp your mouth down on my mound, run your tongue up and down my hard kernel of tormented flesh, and work your fingers into my holes. Now it’s me who starts to beg.

“I don’t want to cum without your hard cock inside me,” I pant, desperate for your bulk and weight on top of me, wanting to be possessed by you.

You get on your knees, ready to enter me for the last time. You work your hips up against mine, pulling gently on my thighs so you can pop the head of your cock inside my aching center. The anticipation is dizzying. We lock eyes and you’re about to lower yourself onto me and take me where I want to go, but when you review the landscape, watching me writhing in anguish, you change your mind, and instead, you stay upright and monitor your man-axe as it rocks halfway in and halfway out of my satiny canyon, coating your tip with my wellspring of desire.

The power has gravitated back to you, and you’re going to wield it for as long as you can.

At this point I’m so beyond ready it’s truly painful. I’m pitching my hips, pinching my nipples, rubbing my clit, begging for it, but you continue to ignore my pleas. When I can’t take it anymore, I stop moving, and raise my arms to invite you one last time to join me, and you finally accept. You lower yourself onto me and kiss me for just the second time. But unlike that first frantic kiss, this one is unexpectedly and excruciatingly tender, longing, and filled with affection. Our arms and legs entangle in an effort to get even closer, although that’s not physically possible, and for just a few moments, we attain that elusive and supreme oneness of mind, body, and spirit. It’s a pure soulful alliance, but so intense, it overwhelms me, so I break from the kiss, and murmur in your ear.

“Fuck me like you mean it.”

You know I’ve broken the magic spell, unexpectedly cast over us, because I’m frightened, but you forgive me, and you grant me what I came to California wine country to collect. With all the strength you can muster you come out of the gate like a greyhound after a plastic rabbit on a rail, humping your purple homewrecker into me with unmatched purpose and skill. I wrap my legs high around your back and squeeze your cock with my velvet glove in rhythm with your thrust – each thrust eliciting a scream from my core. And now at last I hear those screams and I hear your groans, because WE are the storm and it’s raging inside of the van.

This is raw unadulterated fucking at its finest.

For the third time, you’re teetering on that edge, your balls burning, ready to blow. But you’re determined to push me over the cliff before you glaze my donut.

“Cum for me baby,” you moan in my ear, and you loop your arms under my legs, raising my hips higher, and then you slow down the stroke, and I feel every bit of the invasion of your ivory shaft more intensely, as you inch me to just this side of the point of no return.

“I’m gonna cum like I’ve never cum before,” I whisper and then louder, “I’m right there, right there! Here I go baby. Feel me . . . OH GOD!!!”

And a mighty spasm rumbles deep in my pelvis and tears through my body, lighting up my insides like a Christmas tree. I shake violently beneath you as the first wave of intense orgasm ignites and spills over me like hot lava down the side of a volcano. That’s all the notice you need. The animal in you takes over and you’re pounding me like I’m the last lay of your life. I’m so drawn by the force of your commitment, my orgasm refuses to give up until you fire that cannon. The sheer power of our combined forces finally overtakes us and you bury your face in my blonde tresses and exhale a guttural growl as you unload a year’s worth of pent-up desire. And all I can do on the receiving end of that, is shatter.

THE END