Bamboo

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The price of boldness is steep for me, an introvert. But years later that same price can alchemize into its own reward, and the memory of a glad-hearted, clear-eyed transgression can prick beguilingly at the complacency of a settled and latent life. Maybe you know this already, or learned it years ago.

This was a summery Saturday, in college, when you loomed large and I tiptoed around your friends until I could escape with you on your motorcycle to the river’s edge. What I remember is a clearing in a roadside bamboo grove, with your motorcycle parked on the asphalt not far away. You gave me no details as we dismounted the bike, and I had learned not to try pressing them from you. Perhaps you glimpsed the bamboo grove on a casual walk at the outskirts of the campus, and it stuck in your memory.

We stepped together into this space someone had hacked at to create, for some unknown purpose. It was a relief from the sun and smelled like cool earth. You had led me here with our hands close together, but not touching, and studied my reaction. Bars of sunlight filtered in, as though through open blinds. Dust motes floated in those shafts of light and a weird sense of magic, of escape, and even a tinge of trespass prevailed.

I looked around, vaguely pleased. The light striped your body, but the sun was low, and your face was in green shadows. Part of me waited for your touch, feeling frustration curl up the edges of a desire you knew how to stoke.

You surveyed the place yourself, made some observations, and folded your much-worn jacket over your arm. Once you had bragged about discreetly swiping that jacket from your part-time job at the steakhouse, unclaimed as it was for a week in the lost-and-found bin. A perfect-fitting leather jacket with a bonus backstory.

I can sense your pause, and half turn around, hoping your eyes are on me. They are, and you approach me from behind, reaching for my shoulders. I turn and smile, looking up expectantly. You dip your head, but my lips are too far down. So you spin me back around, pinned against the towering, rustling stalks of bamboo which I try, inadequately, to grip. You press up against me, smelling my hair, skimming the edges of my hips with your fingers and then pressing your hands over mine on the bamboo.

A few petals of that desire open up again.

I tilt up my ass almost unconsciously, feeling it nestle there against the bulge in your jeans — the same bulge that I’ve pinned so much of my pride to, that always triggers a chain reaction of longing, destined to burn out in frenzy. You grunt approval, with half a laugh to mock me for my need, knowing the prudish veneer that preceded it.

Does shame give a keening edge to this kind of pleasure?

Your firm fingers wander down my chest and start kneading ankara eryaman escort a breast. My head tips back against you, and my sense of balance starts to fail me. So swift, too easy, too late. Damn.

It isn’t fair, and I part my lips and flash you a look of righteous outrage. Outrage that you could go on smirking, lining your pride with the helplessness of my desire, drawing out exquisite proofs of it excessively, greedily. Something shifts in the sun: the femme intrepide emerges from her crouch within me.

I reach back to pull your shoulder toward me. You lean over into earshot and I say softly, when your chin nears my cheek:

“Sit down. I want to straddle you.”

You stiffen and walk away to find a flat space in the clearing to lay down your jacket, a brief uncertainty in your expression vindicating me.

“I’ve created a monster,” you find time to mutter as you sit down, knees up. I glide over to you, cautious to stay a moment in this thrilling vein: with you, for once, looking up at me.

Eyes lowered, I push your knees down simultaneously as I sidle up to you. First one leg slipped over your hip, then the other, and I scale up our mutual points of heat with my arms thrown over you, one hand in your ruffled soft hair, the other pointing down between your shoulder blades, gripping the flesh. I turned my face into my shoulder, hiding it in my hair as I gasp with the contact.

You don’t want shameless, not yet. You want this.

We move our bodies with the slightest movements, rattled, and you suddenly shift your knees up again so that I’m trapped in the valley of your bent body, squirming against your hard-on as you push me down on it, relenting only as I find my rhythm. You squeeze my ass and claim my lower lip before slipping your tongue in, the tip teasing the roof of my mouth, and my distraction alternates between the deep kiss and the welling heat of our friction.

You pull away with my mouth near your ear, expertly driving from me staccato sighs, breath wetly sucked in, stifled moans. Oh god, get me there.

Wind and the sound of the rustling bamboo drives my excitement higher, spreading a glistening drop of dread in my stomach. If someone were to discover us…

Then you set your mouth into the open expanse of my throat, and my nipples press out along with a spreading cape of goosebumps, leaving me trembling with my fingers digging into the stealthy muscles of your back. Leaving behind half-moon shaped marks.

Your warm breath is on my ear as I set in on you, fumbling to pop open the button of your jeans. You say a single word with that insufferable, titillating smirk: ‘Naughty.’

Your cock shifts with the change in pressure and the zipper eases down without any effort. I slip my hand into the front escort sınırsız çankaya of your boxers, and stroke your thick cock with the back of my hand through the thin fabric, gentle enough to madden you.

You dispatch of our pants and shoes with swiftness and skill. I stand up to peel off the fabric, and you lean in to nip at the sensitive skin just under my breast. I lower myself again slowly and you hook a finger through my panties, slipping them off with a spark of impatience, and they still dangle at my ankle as I press the tip of your shaft against the moistness you’ve uncovered, the same moistness that your fingertips collect, and your clever tongue now appraises. You smile, start to speak: ‘If we had time, I’d –‘

My motions interrupt you, as I shift your upturned cock down to the center of my heat, and start in on making it disappear inside me, bit by glorious bit. You suck in a breath, curse and abandon your thought. That first foray in takes my breath away, as it always does, with a whimper, and a mouth transfigured by lust and shock. Now I’m lost, abandoned, incomprehensible as my forehead grazes yours, and on this act I bestow your name, planted into the depths of your spine with each gasp.

I’m filled and suddenly so close, unable even to complete the word that keeps bubbling up my throat in fractured sounds: ‘Yes’.

You smack my ass hard as I arch back and then forward again, shuddering and clenching as you drive into me.

Pleasure pushes my voice too high to hear, soundless except for a squeak and a shaky exhale. Over the edge now, dripping exhilaration as the last, unconscious twitches of my hips give me away. I feel my wetness pool and wash down your cock, warm and then curiously cool.

And you, fiend, press your thumb over my buzzing clit, and I angle away, not ready, but then — but how could it be —

You catch me on a lazy upswing in the afterglow and press a fingertip gently into the moist rim of my ass, clenching my lower body, and reviving my softening muscles in time to respond to the urgency of your driving cock, the tempo now set by you as I arch my head back, stunned and concentrating on the wet slap of our bodies, sweat mingling as I’m tossed helplessly over the edge again, uttering a cry with watery edges that ends in a kind of sob of pleasure. And your name.

You eyes are darkened and dilated, and you give me a moment to recover. I rest my head on your thigh and stretch out, langorous and shameless with my naked ass facing up and my legs bent away from the bamboo stumps on the ground near me.

My hand travels dreamily up your flank and down again, slick with a sheen of sweat, and my breath stirs toward your cock, which shifts with the sensation.

I finally open my eyes to see çankaya eve gelen escort bayan the last stripe of dying sunlight catch the corner of your mouth, and it seems to say, ‘Time’s up.’

Who else could make me feel so thrillingly debauched?

I flash my gaze at you and lazily nip the inside of your thigh as my thumb and finger wonderingly trace the length of your erection from top to bottom, and you suddenly grip my upper arms and bend your head towards me: “On your hands and knees,” you say with deadly precision. You spin me around and I comply, arching my ass as far in the air as I can to accommodate you as you kneel to mount me, eliciting another astonished gasp as I feel your velvety hardness plunge into my swollen pussy. My arms give out almost immediately, and I rest a cheek on the leather of your jacket, gripping it tightly with one hand as my lower body rides you.

Your possessive fingers trace the sensitive borders of my clit with one hand as you palm my ass with the other, and pound into my body so deep that shocks of pleasure extend out from my core. Between your thrusts I choke out the words you want to hear, the whispered dirty sex-steeped words that pool behind my teeth every time we’re together like this: “Oh god, you’re so deep. How can it feel so…so good? Ah, why should it feel so fucking good?” Your dampened hand reaches forward to cup my jaw, the fingers dipping into my mouth, and I suck them in hungrily, releasing a long, low groan from the base of my throat. Your other hand keeps toying with my clit as I feel your thighs tense up, your pace now erratic.

Distantly, we hear a car door slam and a brief double beep. Instinctively your hand clamps to cover my whole mouth. I respond to the sudden pressure by bucking my hips harder against you, reassured by your strong hand, on which I can smell my own arousal. I’m shamelessly still crying out behind your hand, and this display of wanton depravity in the face of imminent discovery seems to crowd away your self control, and I can hear the strangled cry of relief escape you as you come, fierce and messy inside me.

You stay in for a second or two, with your head resting just above the small of my back, before withdrawing. Footsteps start approaching from several feet away, as well as the sound of desultory talk. You pull up your jeans haphazardly, and hastily drape your jacket over my lap so I would be covered.

The voices approached before fading away again, and slowly we realized that it was already night, and no one had taken note of us crouched in this dark clearing.

I reach for my flung away clothes in a daze and you steady me up by my elbows, grinning into my hair. “That was hot,” you offer, with raised eyebrows, raking your hands through your slightly damp hair.

I respond with a tiny scoffing sound, the introversion having slid back in place, and the femme intrepide having laid her feet up to rest.

But I thread my fingers through yours as we exit the clearing, feeling painted by the warmest moonlight as your motorcycle weaves through traffic on the road back to my dorm.

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