Jackpot

It was all to do with timing. I was clothed in evening wear, high boots, a dress that billowed. There was opera on the stereo. All this because \i couldn't bare the idea of washing up, a job I hated and rarely completed, without the theatre of the dress and the music. I made a performance of it, treating myself to sips of chilled wine between each burnt bottomed pan, the egg so old it had fused with the metal. I scraped back layers of aluminium to find a clean surface.

When he arrived, the last of the dishes was dripping foam into the precarious pile by the sink. The door was open and he stood in the loungeroom and the muslin cloth was flapping in a hot breeze and I turned around and it was like a scene from some movie. Him so beautiful, me in my evening gown and my rubber gloves, the opera screaming to an exquisite crescendo.

I almost laughed. The poetry of the moment struck me as comical. I had given him my address but I didn't expect him to find me. He was a customer at the cafe and every time I spotted him perched on one of the cane stools I became inept. I dropped cups, fumbled cakes off their plates, once I even dropped the whole tray, hot with dishes just washed.

He made me nervous.

Because of this I didn't try to speak to him. I took my clothes off, standing in boots and bra as the opera quietened to a duet.

I walked past him into the bedroom where our king-sized futon kissed three of the walls and when he stumbled out of his trousers I noticed that his penis was too large. He was a tall man and was short enough to approach it warily. I could only fit a fraction of it in my mouth. I rolled the condom part of the way using my lips, but I was forced to back off, finish the job with my fingers. It was the first time this had happened to me. I wondered if it would hurt.

I was wet, which was unusual. I am not the kind of girl you read about in pornographic magazines. My excitement leaves me perhaps a little damp. Even after orgasm there is a discreet slick of juices, just enough to give a slippery edge. I like the feel of lubricant and face cream and spit but I am like a desert, hot and fierce with passion but with only a hazy glimpse of moisture, a mirage. This day, perhaps because of the heat or the opera or the hours standing at the sink in high heels there was little need for lubricant. I used it anyway, the size of his penis made a little knot in my lower abdomen. Too big for me. I thought he might hurt. I squeezed the clear stickiness onto my palm and marvelled at the distance travelled by my fist, each stroke a journey all the way from the tip to the flat of his belly which was surprisingly pale and soft, like something new born and desperate for protection.

I layed him on our bed, this man that I had wanted for so many weeks. I straddled his hips and settled myself down gently, only a small way.

How could I take much more of him into me. I measured the uncharted territory with my hand. I would need both hands to cover it. I stroked the vulnerable length with my fingers, my hand an extension of my cunt, massaging all the length of him. With my other arm steadying myself I wondered how I would bring myself to orgasm without loosing my grip on him completely.