Everyone talks about the first kiss. I however, am a fan of the second kiss. A first kiss is conservative. You’re stepping into unknown territory so obviously you want to tread lightly at first. The second kiss is much more honest, more intense. Its the bridge to the make out. That is when you start to read the other person. His hand may move to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Her hands may begin to caress the nape of his neck. I love the buildup, the discovery. When you get to the point where you figure out what they like.

True.  In my mind at least, the first and second kiss generally blend into one.  The passion of the second can spill over and overwrite the awkwardness, or the timidness of the first; the first kiss gives you the foundation, the second kiss lets you build and build and build.

“Yeah. I’d watch some volleyball player sex right now.” I learned about 10 minutes into meeting Katie that nearly everything she says sounds to me like a come-on. I’ve never fully decided if she was really flirting with me, or if I was just straining all my senses to imagine that she was.

There was a silence, not awkward so much as charged, and charging. Every moment that one of us didn’t laugh, didn’t change the subject, every moment that sex hung in the air, charged the space around us with sexual energy. She turned her head towards me, and as I looked over, she let out the sort of sigh one lets out when dessert is placed before them, the sort of sigh that says, “this will be nice.”

Scenes like this draw you in. Can you imagine yourself, the summer night sprawled above, heat dissipating into the stars, the rooftop views of the city, and then this: tension, friction, the tangible static electricity? I’m wondering if that almost feels better than the inevitable.

I turned further around, enough that I could wrap my arm around her back and hold her side with my hand. I pulled her around and on top of me, lifting her easily up and over my legs as our lips still worked at getting to know one another, able to anticipate and appreciate one another perfectly. As her knees slid down past my waist on either side, her skirt rode up, exposing bare thighs and the sort of near nudity that finds it home only in early summer and on downtown rooftops. She was pressing down against my cock now, rubbing herself slowly back and forth, holding herself up with her hands against my shoulders.

Almost.

During sex nothing can replace the passion and lust that kissing ignites. Starting from a slow meshing of lips and building into something more as hand wander and bodies press. Without lips you can’t swallow the moans of another. You can’t bite and tease and nibble. Sex is just bodies joined at the hips without kissing. Kissing closes the circuit. Kissing is what completes the act. It makes everything come full circle.

I completely agree.

“SIT.”

His voice wasn’t that loud, but i jumped anyway and i slowly sank into the little bitty student desk nearest me. My classroom was an old first grade room and the desks were small and low to the ground. i felt ridiculously small and very awkward sitting there in that tiny desk. My mind raced through all the options i had (stay mad? beg for forgiveness? say a simple apology? start crying??), but before i could come up with a plan of action he was speaking again.

“First of all, I was only going to hug you. Second of all, if someone walked in I had planned to say that was moving to the area and I’d stopped to check out the school and that you were answering my questions. And last, but certainly not least, DO NOT EVER TELL ME THAT I CAN’T TOUCH MY PROPERTY AGAIN. Understood?”

I fondly remember the first version of Puppy Tales.  I haven’t been following the new one until just recently, and I’m glad to have found it again.

“Hey, you,” he says, and gives me a grin that I know doesn’t represent anything terribly witty or wry.

A slow nausea forms in the pit of my stomach. The better part of me tells me to smile, apologize and walk back down the street as fast as I can. I should go, but I never do.

“Hi.”

He pulls the door open wider. “You look like you need a good, hard fuck.” The tone is casual, like anyone else might say: ‘you look like you got caught in the rain,’ or ‘you look cold.’

I’m drawn to this story because it is dripping with atmosphere, emotion, and just that inescapable feeling of being right there. It’s near, and almost painfully so.

And of course, I’m a sucker for being read to.

Come to me.

Steal into my room while I slumber. I am alone and no one will need to know. How pleasant to feel your hard body pressing up next to mine. To have those hands rouse me while feathering lightly over my flesh. Not quite awake but fully aware of your presence, I stretch while your skimming hands reach for my breasts. The skin around my nipples tighten, the center stiffens as you tease. With a wry smile, hands are quickly replaced by a warm mouth, teeth and tongue. My body conceals a small shudder as the nerve endings fire throughout.

It’s such an inviting scene. Building it up from the outside in, moving in succinct concentric circles until you’re there, in the center. Who wouldn’t want to accept this fantasy?

Two long fingers reach to press inside me, thrusting up toward my navel, while your thumb whisks along my clit. I acknowledge the stirring in my abdomen as it begins to tighten. This isn’t me, at least not any “me” I recognize. The more bawdy, indecently you use me, the wetter I become.

Have we all felt this kind of lust? The one that possesses and overtakes ourselves— in the sense that we are no longer at all what we thought?