Feel Us Shaking: Part I

The afternoon sun sliced-in through the blinds, painting her in alternating stripes of black and skin.  Black and skin.  Like animals we were – naked and reeling from the feverous last hour of sprinting across our physical savannahs.

Laying awkwardly and only halfway on the couch, I finally found the courage to look up and into her eyes.  This, after shivering completely through my electric stun of an orgasm that crept-up so elegantly into my body that it took me by surprise.  It was an orgasm that came from several hours back – maybe days or even weeks back – gradually it ascended, and then suddenly it came. 

Her eyes, glassy and reflecting more than a look in my direction, shimmered like a sleepy alpine lake.  More than a look, as she wiped herself off, she peered back into me.

And I, still shaking, peered back at her.

Without word, our glassy eyes said things like: I can’t believe that happened.  I can’t believe what we just did…

As she wiped my juices from her stomach, she opened her legs to dry her wet thighs.  Again I peeked-in, my glance circling over and under her bald mound, to the soft curves of her inner legs and ass.  I fixated on that sunny trail from her gorgeous pelvic bone up to her nipples, where my sweat was still glistening. 

I will never forget the way that the light washed around her slick neck.

Black and skin.   Black and skin.

As though my glance upon her was tickling, she teasingly smiled and looked up at me.  Deeply.

My cock, still throbbing and erect, was the only thing between us.  Here, there were no words.  Just eyes and two naked bodies.  Intimately nude.

In this moment, we looked at the other, as if we both knew.  As if we both were aware of Nietzsche’s maxim: “Words make what is uncommon, common”. 

As she cleaned herself, she batted her eyes on my cock.  Again and again, we watched each other – this being the first time we had seen each other naked.

It all happened so fast and so blind.  In a whirling rage of fitted eroticism that came from weeks and months and lifetimes left behind.


Andrea was married.  But she was a girl that had turned my head, and had continued to do so, for some time before we decided to go to lunch together that afternoon. 

Our boss had just finished one of her maniacal raves.  We all left the meeting at noon, unsure and irritated.

Then Andrea proposed: The idea was predicated on the fact that we both needed to get away from work.  Have a cocktail.  Unwind.  Talk about work.  Think about work.  And then, go back to work.

That was before the cocktails came.

One, then two and then a third.

At that point strolling through the park seemed like a good idea.

Then, once at the fountain the idea of an air conditioned museum seemed perfect.


Andrea was a catalyst converter kind of girl.

I could be having the worst of possible days.  I could be feeling hollow and empty and devoid of any real emotion.  But Andrea was the kind of girl that, even if you were feeling entirely asexual during the day, once you saw her – your blood started pulsing.  Your mind starting churning and thoughts of what kind of damage you could do in five minutes alone with her starting seeming rational.  Likely.  Plausible.  Hot.  Hot.  Hot.

Phsyically, Andrea was cute.  She was a kind of all-American looking girl.  Mall bought clothes.  Nothing fancy.  Nothing outstanding.  But Andrea was the kind of girl that grew on you.

At first I didn’t pay much mind to her.  Then, I began to notice the small things: In meetings, there was the way she crossed and uncrossed her legs and fumbled with her pencil, running it around her always-engorged lips.  And then, there was her ass and legs.

Maybe it was the way they were carved and cut.  Their hue.  Her scent.  Those dimples in her ass.  There was some hidden sexuality in the way that she carried herself.  The way that she talked. 

She spoke to you as though you were the only thing that mattered.

And the way I would catch her watching me said, I will devour you.  And maybe even more than that.  I always thought her eyes were saying, I will devour you.  I want to devour you.

When she was talking, I often found myself daydreaming about her taste.  Her intimate scent.  Those muscles in her legs and how tight she could squeeze me between them.

And Andrea was the girl that illuminated the notion of ankles being sexy.  The way that her business pants would ride up and off her ankle, exposing her heels or pumps, or whatever business-casual kind of footwear adorned her feet, in conjunction with her adorably painted toe nails – sent a warm surge of blood to my midsection.

The way that she walked was titillating, with those near-perfect curves of leg-meeting-ass-meeting back.  Always her hips swayed, teasing me.  Telling me that there was something underneath.  Something that, spoken in her bipedal motion, told me I wanted.  Needed.  Craved.


Once out of the piercing summer sun and in the museum, we strolled aimlessly.  I purposely would let her walk in front of me as much as I could – so that I could steal glances.  I knew, this may be my only chance to capture the sensation of her walking that overwhelmingly erotic walk next to me.

And as though that weren’t enough, I was always, always toying with the idea of which kind of panties she was wearing to heighten this most-sensual and erotic of words and ideas that coursed through me like blood.  More than guessing the color of what she had on underneath – I wanted to know the cut, the style of her panties – if she wore anything at all.  Because I never saw a line.  I never was given a hint.  Frequently I had slipped down her funneled spine, all the way down her pants.  Reaching, reaching…

Still, I never saw a thing.

In this Andrea’s panties were my best analogy for her sexuality: it was invisible. Understated.

Tempting my mouth to water.


As we walked, there was a hushed patience in our step.  Half drunk in the middle of the day, with great white walls enclosing us like quiet, colossal and white waves – we wound around and into a plethora of exhibits.

We talked about work.  At first.

Then Andrea began talking about life outside of work.  Typically reserved, nobody knew anything about Andrea’s world away from work.  Then, for the first time, she began illuminating some notable items to me.

She said that she had been married for three years.  But it might be a mistake.  It might not be what she always wanted.  Pictured.

Now he wanted children.  And she, wanted to run.

She said that she was young.  Still, young.  There was so much she hadn’t accomplished or even tried.  She didn’t want to limit herself.

Passing through a corridor striped in light and darkness, we walked.  Only the hollow sounds of our steps and dark timbre of her words echoed around us – enveloping us as a shroud of ambiguity and nearly, sorcery.


We were in the Native American exhibit, walking closely together. 

The hall was empty.

That’s when, as our conversation had paused on the subject of adventure, Andrea asked me what my hottest sexual experience was.

I giggled at first.  But she turned fluently in my direction and stepped even closer.  In my meditative inhale I could taste the alcohol on her breath.

My whole body warmed with a rich and colorful vibrancy.

I said, truth?  I watched a couple out my window.  And the couple watched me back.  That was the hottest experience.  As I went into details I told her I have since named it “The Adrenaline Moment”.

After listening, and she did so by intermittently staring beyond the artwork, envisioning the details I spoke of and looking up at me – Andrea finally spoke.  She said, so you’re exhibitionist?

I said, I might be.  I’m unsure.  I’m not sure what that means.  If it’s not synonymous with a flasher and a raincoat, then yes.  I might be just that.  I said that I am still figuring this out.  In time, I will… In time, I will.

She said you like your cock to be seen, don’t you?

And as I nodded, Andrea slipped her index finger into one of my belt loops.  She didn’t tug on it, but I could feel the pronounced weight like the most pungent of colors.  In a swift second, I pictured her manicured finger on my skin.  The contrast.  The spectrum.  The wonder.

Then, stepping into me and surrounded by an empty hall of Native American artifacts, Andrea slipped her arm into mine.  And we walked onward.

~ by The Provocateur on June 15, 2007.

5 Responses to “Feel Us Shaking: Part I”

  1. Your writing, Sir, is delicious as I am sure that you are. Your imagery is profound; it draws me in and I want more.

  2. What I enjoy about your writing is the tension and sense of expectation you create.

    More, please.

  3. I agree with my friend Viviane.

  4. i get so lost in your words. you paint a perfect picture in my mind.

    so vivid, so honest and as always so beautiful.

  5. I once knew a man who would watch me walk and steal glances. It was highly erotic, and led to some wonderful experiences.

    Another great piece of writing from you.
    I do with you wrote more often 🙂

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