She was an older woman. 6 months still qualifies.
She was the first girl I ever to whom I ever said, "I love you."
We had hiked into the woods behind her house to a clearing we were convinced that we alone knew of. As we lay in the tall, cushioned grass beneath the swaying branches of a copse of white birches and towering maples, she removed her blouse and reclined, looking at me, expectantly. Her breasts were small, perfect, and looked like they were made of polished ivory. The left one had a tiny mole above it that she referred to, endearingly, as her "heart button." I remember her adjusting her wild tangle of raven-black hair, so that it cascaded over her shoulders.
As I used my right index finger to trace a slow, gentle path down her chest, to her just-pierced navel, I was suddenly overcome with a depth of feeling that only an 18 year old can feel – that constellation of emotions that threatens to obliterate you with its potency and urgency. I couldn’t look in her eyes, and, instead, buried my face in her chest, which prompted her to take a sudden, surprised intake of breath and then let out an innocent giggle.
I rested my right hand on her side. That touch was irresistible – her soft, silken flank sloped gently out into womanly hips. When we were a couple of years younger, and I put my arm around her waist for the first time, I remember thinking how well my hand fit in to that nook, and hoping that I never had to let go of it. My left hand reached up and cupped her pristine, alabaster cheek, occasionally running a finger around the outline of her ear.
A surge of panic radiated through my chest, as if I had just barely kept myself from tumbling down a long flight of stairs, and that was when I did it. I mumbled, barely audibly, into her breastbone, "I love you, you know." I could feel the blood sounding in my head and felt my breath pick up.
I’m not sure if she responded immediately, but my next memory was of her lips. She had lifted my head and pressed herself against me, her tongue exploring mine with a force I had never felt before. This wasn’t the tentative meandering of prior kisses, but rather a purposeful declaration of shared feeling.
There have been few times since then where I have legitimately lost viv thomas peaches myself in a moment as I did then. Without hesitation, she yanked my t-shirt over my head, and rolled me on to my back, straddling me. Both of us were still wearing jeans, and I remember my hardness straining against the fabric as she collapsed on top of me, breathlessly, holding my hands down on either side of my head and kissing urgently down my chest and belly.
As her entirely clothed pelvis ground against mine, I got a hint of that peculiar mélange of pleasure and pain that would color so many of my later sexual experiences. Still none of my subsequent exploration would be as hot (or as relatively chaste) as that one. I didn’t realize it at the time, but when she raised her head to mine, locked eyes with me, took a playful nibble on my earlobe and www.vivthomas whispered, "By the way, of course I know," I had learned how inextricably love and desire can be linked.
She breathed deeply and rolled to the side, landing softly in a small patch of dandelions. The flowers popped apart, sending up a cloud of seeds that made her wrinkle her nose. Her eyes met mine, expectantly, and she gently bit her lower lip. She tentatively drew her right hand down over her chest and stomach, bringing it to rest at the top of her jeans. Without saying a word, she gingerly undid the snap and pulled apart the seem slightly, so the zipper only just began to separate. As I continued to stare into her eyes, she nodded.
As she spread her viv thomas models legs slightly, the zipper crept a bit further down, until I could see a hint of pink cotton panties, and I took that as my cue to move in closer, sliding my body against hers. She sighed deliciously as I nuzzled against her neck, giving an occasional tiny bite. Meanwhile, my right hand slid over her belly and into the silken warmth below.
She did not shave at that time, and I remember how she shivered slightly as my fingers ran through her mound of delicate hair. I slid my middle finger inside her to the knuckle, pressing lightly against her mons with my palm.
I was young and inexperienced, and had a teenage boy's distorted view of how to pleasure a woman, so I just let her body take the lead. When she let out an errant moan, and her hips bucked slightly, my hand rose to meet her, and I took her earlobe between my teeth or kissed her neck more fervently. When she swished her hips in a 2/4 staccato of pleasure, I adjusted my tempo to match, tracing a complementary rhythm against her. As her breath became more intense, and she started biting her lip in ecstatic agony, I gently hooked my finger inside her, pressing against her most delicate spot. And when her muscles relaxed, and she fell into a nearly rhapsodic pattern of breathy coos, I rested my ear on her chest, listening to the ever-diminishing beat of her heart.
There would be other meetings in that birch grove over the next several years – encounters that dwarfed our first in terms of sexual intensity – but there were no others that remain so vividly imprinted on me.
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