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Dennis

DENNIS by M.S.

I lay in bed staring up at the white mesh canopy of the mosquito net, thinking about the night before and … Dennis.

Dennis with brown eyes that melted like chocolate in the firelight.

Dennis with the deep Afrikaans accent that rolled off his tongue into the crisp winter night.

Dennis with the inquisitive nature about the USA .

Dennis with a sure-footedness that spun me around the fire pit in a sokie sokie, an Afrikaans waltz of sorts.

Dennis with the quick smile, chatting with my friends about his country of Namibia.

Dennis with the shy, hesitant steps dancing to American hip-hop.

Dennis with the musky smell that remains in my hair and on my neck.

Dennis with the plump lips that softly found their way from my lips to my ear.

With the gentle tongue that slid in and out of my mouth.

With the strong arms that lifted me up and wrapped my legs around his waist.

With the solid hands that gripped my buttocks.

With the carved chest that pressed my back up against the wall.

With the baby smooth cheeks nuzzled into the cleavage of my breasts.

The large penis that expanded in my hand.

The gentle tug of my hair back, putting it in my mouth.

The taut ass that I grabbed as I moved back and forth.

The quiet silence as he grew hot in my mouth.

The low cry as he released warm juices on my tongue.

Solid hands that slid up my thighs.

Hunting fingers that deftly unbuttoned my jeans.

Tossled hair that tickled my bare stomach as he slid down my body.

White teeth that carefully pulled at my nipple.

Delicate fingers that slipped into my vagina.

Subtle force weaving around in the warm wetness of me.

The body heat,

the racing heart,

the shallow breathing

growing quieter,

quieter.

Shiver.

Silence.

Dennis.

M.S. was sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Her “first time” was college with her first love. She was a late bloomer. Slowly, after that, each petal opened and she let go of the Catholic guilt about sexual pleasure. She let go of the need to know the person in a hammock at a mountain wedding rendezvous or on a sacred rock in the desert. She let go of the need to have her physical interactions result in something beyond that fling in the elevator of a D.C. apartment complex or in a Sex and City rendezvous in NYC. She let go of the need to be in control and opened herself to the simple incarnate magic of two beings engaging in the natural act of copulation on a picnic bench under the moonlight at the edge of the Puget Sound.  MS’s stories capture each petal of that opening and the growth of her sexuality into the full blossom it is today.

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