Passionate, Sweet Stranger Sex
"The Storm," a Vanilla sex story by Muffy Wilson
It’s a violent morning. The sky is a curious blend of clear and sunny to the east, but dark grey, black almost, and foreboding, to the west. In between the two, where these contrasts collide, the wind is furious and hard, screaming while it squeezes through the lanai screens. When the sun tries to rise, the color is alarming, frightening almost. A blast of yellow, orange, and red ignites the sky, preceding the wind to its fury. The thunder rolls, claps, and explodes, announcing the rain that will inevitably arrive. Morning is night again. It is black and the sounds of the impending storm are at once loud and silent, rolling and violent, calm and relenting, intense and penetrating, yet forgiving—all around stifling, overwhelming. The noise is curiously sexual as the rain begins to fall, hidden in darkness. The sky is giving up the bounty of life.
It is a fine day to stay inside and make love, eat grapes, listen to Johnny Mathis, laugh, and drown out the day’s violent awakening with the music of our beating hearts. I think of you, roll to look at you, and am happy my day starts in your arms. It is a love story that begins anew this morning, gaining strength throughout the day, not unlike this storm. I am hot for you, and I stretch my arms toward you.
But as I roll to face you, to swim in your gaze, the heavy fog in my head begins to lift and I realize with a start that you are not here. You will never be here again. It was always so easy to look toward our tomorrows because our todays were filled with one another. Our lives were interlocked in a love that seemed like it would transcend our future. And then in an instant, the comfort and security of two hearts beating as one was lost—forever. And this is how the new days of my life without you begin: dark, ominous, and foreboding.
I stare, emptily, out of the hotel window. Black and grey envelopes everything; I can’t feel anything. I feel unanchored as I float in this sea of darkness; lost, alone. Then I remember the events of the past few days—how quickly and disastrously they unfolded. You were gone to me and everyone who loved you. You left without having the chance to say goodbye; you were snapped out of our lives, as if some payment to the Gods was long overdue. I will never touch your cheek again—not in this lifetime. My heart breaks for the thousandth time and I finally begin to weep.
I weep for my loss, for myself, hoping the tears will keep me company and give me comfort. They do not. I cannot call you back into my arms, nor can I drown the longing with my tears. I know people wondered why I didn’t cry at the funeral. We never cried, you and me. Our life together was joyful and loving, a shared unity of thought and reason, purity and passion, the familiar love and hate. Mostly love. . .
I stand at the window anxiously, with only my reflection for solace. I can’t bear another moment. As the rain intensifies outside, the waves pound the shoreline. The late night has given way to a bleak and chilly morning. I think of my regular run and wonder if I have the strength to fall into the comfort of my daily workout. I decide that I have nothing but my regular routine, since the airline has grounded all planes because of the storm. I put on my spandex knee-hi’s and sports bra, sock-less sneakers, and windbreaker and grab my room key. I think for a brief moment that perhaps I can outrun my sorrow and return to the room happy again.
I hit the street in the piercing rain. I haven’t even pulled my hair back from my face. I start to run against oncoming traffic, which seems sparse for this time of day. The rain stings my face like pellets of pain. At least I feel something other than emptiness. I run and I run and I run until my calves are weak, beginning to tremble, and I have to stop. My breasts heave as my lungs struggle for more air. I am a bit lightheaded and a strange sense of euphoria comes over me. I bend over with my hands on my knees, stretching, struggling for breath, yet the breath doesn’t come. The euphoria persists. I lift my head and look to the surf. And then I know what needs to be done.
I walk to the surf, heaving for breath, weak from running against the rain, fighting the storm, the sadness, your loss. I walk into the surf and keep walking. It is surprisingly warm and enveloping. I suddenly feel comforted, my heartbreak no longer a penetrating pain. I know you are with me and I seek out your embrace. I cry again, scream at my loss, and then I am gone. I can’t breathe and I am falling, rolling, tumbling in a hazy darkness, wet, ferocious, demanding.
Suddenly my dizzy comfort turns to fear and I struggle against the surf. What have I done? I am a good swimmer and an athlete, but can I beat this? Instinct overcomes me. My heart pounds. I start to kick wildly. Moving my arms toward the surface, the current catches me again, tumbling me over and over. My lungs burn. I lose my bearing—which way is up, down? I start to get a sickening feeling of death, my own impending death, and, just as I start to give in, I feel the hand of God grab my hair and hood in a fierce grip and yank me to the surface. I feel the surf diminish. Everything tastes salty, and then my body heaves, relaxed, and my world goes black.
I awake to pounding on my chest; I am being rattled and something is covering my mouth and nose. I cough, retch, and then vomit the last vestiges of the ocean from my body. My mouth is filled with grit and the taste of taffy. I open my eyes and see God reaching down toward me. He leans over me and the ocean’s salty water drips from his face to mine. He is big, strong, and gasping: his white hair and white beard frighten me. I must be dead. But he sits me up, helps me to my feet, all the while holding me securely, and speaks to me. “Where do you live?”
“Wha. . . ?” My knees weaken and I fall further into his grasp. He quickly catches me and carries me to a bench where he sits me down, moving the hair from my cheeks, and asks again, “Where are you staying? Shall I call the police?” I can feel my heart pounding against his chest.
Offering, by Valery Bareta (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
“No, please, I’m . . . I’ll be fine. My key, in my pocket.” I can’t remember my hotel or where I am or why. As he unzips my pocket and removes my hotel key, he pulls my hood up over my head to shelter my face from the pelting rain. Collecting me under his arm, my body firmly in his grip, we walk slowly back to the hotel. The traffic is still sparse, no taxis to be seen. It seems to take forever. The storm is so much worse, the surf so high, sucking the wind into it’ folds as it retreats to the ocean. At once, I am scared and yet I feel protected.
As we walk into the hotel lobby, the bell captain approaches us and asks if I need the hotel doctor, whereupon my guardian says, “No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” We take the elevator to my floor and I am finally in the sanctity of my room, as lonely as it is. My savior, my hero, sits me in the desk chair while he goes to the bathroom and starts the shower. He returns. He is saying something to me that I can’t understand, but he starts to take my shoes off. Then he leans me forward, removes my windbreaker and sports bra, and helps me stand while he pulls relentlessly at my wet spandex knee-highs. He kicks off his own running shoes and removes his blazer. He carries me to the shower but I feel as if I’m watching the scene unfold from outside my own body.
The water is hot and piercing, but he is gentle, loving, and tender. He bathes me and washes my hair, lifting the removable nozzle to rinse the sand and seaweed from my lithe body. My skin is pink from the intense extreme of the cold ocean’s grasp and the comfort of the hot shower. His hands are everywhere, on every curve, gently soaping my skin. He deftly washes my breasts and pubis. He seems to almost caress my buttocks as he cleans the sand from between my rounded cheeks. He rinses my body thoroughly, running his fingers though my shoulder-length brown hair. I feel safe, yet surprisingly aroused.
For the first time, it seems, he looks down at me. He takes me in as I look up at him, transfixed by his control. I am naked in my sorrow and my pain; he, fully clothed except for his windbreaker, smiles, touching my heart. “Everything will be alright now,” he tells me. And I believe him, he is so sure of himself. Then, holding my body securely, he leans across me to shut off the water.
As he reaches for towels, I smell him. His odor is warm, musky, comforting, a manly mix of fragrance and ocean. And just as quickly as I take it in, it’s gone. He then gently wraps my body in a towel, and does the same for my hair, tucking a wayward curl under the turban framing my flushed face. I collapse faint in his arms, finally losing control of my legs and balance.
I awake moments later with a cool wet towel on my forehead, securely positioned between the crisp, clean linens of the bed. He is still wearing his wet running shorts and T-shirt. As my eyes sharpen, I notice how handsome and strong he is. His face and body complement each other perfectly. He has a chiseled, rustic appeal. He’s unlike my husband in every way, I think to myself. My husband, oh, God. I am grateful to this man and try to speak. Noting the Valium on the nightstand, he asks when I last took one of the pills. “Last night,” I reply, barely breathing. Reading the label, he takes one from the bottle and opens a bottle of water from the nightstand. Holding my head and neck, gently, he helps me take the pill, as I watch him intently. Returning me to the pillow, he softly tucks the sheets in around me. Touching my cheek, he smiles and says, “You’ll be fine now. I will let the hotel doctor know you were overcome by a rogue wave as you jogged along the beach. I’ll take care of everything and ask him to check on you by nine o’clock tonight. You should sleep until then.”
I feel the panic of separation and fear overwhelm me as the color drains from my face. My heart pounds and my pulse quickens as I reach for my stranger. “Please, don’t leave me now. Can’t you just stay until I wake? Please. . .” and I start to sob. Gently, he holds me until I calm down. Kneeling beside the bed, wiping the tears from my face, he says he will stay and that he wants to take a shower. I let him free from my hold and watch him walk to the bathroom, where I hear the shower start yet again. He closes the door behind him.
I’m dozing peacefully when he emerges from the shower. I roll onto my side as the sheets slip away from my body. The towels are lying, untended, beneath me. The storm rages on, worse than before, pounding at the windows of my suite. My hero thinks I’m sleeping as he walks silently across the room, naked, to the closet, looking for something to wear. He dons the hotel terrycloth robe and approaches me just as he ties its belt at his midriff. I open my eyes and gaze at him softly, sleepily, and see that he’s standing beside me, stroking himself as he looks down at me in bed. I should be frightened, I think, but I am not. I welcome the intimacy. I am uncovered.
I turn to my side to watch his performance. My full breasts appear to be beckoning for him and I roll fully onto my back, reaching out to him. I am exposed and vulnerable, begging my stranger to be with me, to take me, to do what the sea had not been able to do—make me forget.
Not a word is spoken between us; the only sound is the storm continuing fiercely. I feel connected to the storm, and as he slips into bed and begins to touch me, I can feel the storm in my head, beating against my temples, pumping the blood rapidly to parts of my body deadened by my loss and grief. I feel hot—raging, and throbbing—the piercing heat making my skin fluid and almost too sensitive to touch. But, I beg him to touch me, my stranger, my hero. And so he does.
All over. He runs his hands from my sweet smelling hair to my ears as he showers my face with hungry kisses. He controls himself. I realize I never noticed his erection as he bathed me in the shower; he is a complete gentleman.
He mentions his plane has been grounded because of the storm. He seems tense, telling me that anger and tightness have been grabbing his neck and shoulders, the storm pissing him off, so he’d decided to run to burn off some anger, to work out the kinks. He’d seen me walking toward the water, trance-like, with a deliberate stride. He said he thought I would stop at the shore’s edge, but when I did not, he ran fast and hard against the wind and rain, against the bellowing storm, and plunged himself into the pounding, beating surf to save me.
God, I feel beautiful, even as I cry. I look at him, knowing my eyes are piercing, demanding, unrelenting. I want him to eat me, every inch of my hungry body, now stretched out, languishing like a waiting cat. It strikes me for the first time that I’m a widow and I’m hungry to be touched, hungry to be tasted; I yearn to be penetrated. I roll into his arms. I awoke that morning dreaming about a day of music, grapes, and lovemaking with Johnny Mathis, but here there are no grapes, no music—just the storm and two strangers embraced as one, riding it out together.
His hands explore my ears as he kisses my face, neck, and earlobes. He sticks his tongue in my ear, ever so gently, teasing me with what’s to come. I squirm beside him, shocked by my own hot desires. I run my hands from his hair down his shoulders to his back, and what a back it is. Oh God, his chiseled, rustic good looks are nothing compared to the carefully carved physique he’s maintained. I feel like I might come just feeling his biceps.
His experienced fingertips continue to explore my body, and I explore his. Then, as swiftly as he plucked me out of the ocean’s grasp, he flings me to my back, fully, openly, and straddles me. His erect penis lays on my pubis, touching my taunt belly. Pre-cum drips onto me. It is hot, searing. I am mad with longing. I arch my back and fling myself at my stranger, wrapping my arms around his neck. I kiss him deeply and without shame for the first time. He grabs my wrists from around his neck and falls upon them, pinning me to the bed as he licks my neck, my breasts, and my arms. He continues his downward journey, never losing sight of his need for my throbbing, wet pinkness. I’m waiting, moving, yearning for his touch.
His penis drags down my leg and I can feel his tongue lapping at me. I imagine his pulsing veins filled with his life force. I imagine his penis engorged with cum, awaiting release. He pinches and teases my breasts with his finger. It makes me hotter than I thought I could ever get. I leave my sorrow and bury my face in his shoulder, whimpering, longing for more. He is on my stomach and I can feel his stubble on my bellybutton. I nearly explode with desire. I don’t think I can stand another minute, not another second. He brings his hands down the sides of my body. As he slips his hands under my buttocks, I let out an involuntary breath. My senses and every inch of my skin is on overload. I can tell he is too, because his member is harder and bigger than it’s been since we started.
He lifts my buttocks up to meet his eagerly awaiting mouth as he slides his thumbs to either side of my vulva, opening it to welcome his tongue. I scream. His tongue is hot and hard. He moves expertly, weaving a tight band of passion around my clit, back and forth, up and down. Nothing, nothing, no one has ever given me this much pleasure.
I can feel my blood boil, the storm pounding at the walls and windows, the building shaking against the gale force winds. I shake against my stranger, my lover, as he does things to me I never imagined possible. My face and breasts begin to sweat, trickling down my body like threads of molten wax. I let go of the bed linens and grab his head between my palms. My back arched, my pelvis thrust outward, my hands reach up to hold my breasts, now hard and heaving with desire. I can feel my rapid heartbeat pounding with increasing fury. Or is it the storm? Oh, God.
My back is arched off of the bed as if I were possessed by demons, my weight only supported by my shoulders and the balls of my feet. Willing myself closer and closer into his face, I lose myself just in the moments before I burst. I come down on the bed hard; sitting nearly upright, I wrap my legs around his neck and come, fully, hotly, and sweetly into his welcoming mouth. His tongue laps at every drop as I fall, spent upon the bed, my arm over my eyes.
He moans and growls as he flips me onto my belly and quickly slides into me from behind. I didn’t think I had another ounce of energy, but I am surprised by my own insatiability. He pulls me to my knees by my hips, digging his fingertips into my skin, searing my flesh with his fingers. Have I ever been so hot? Has he? My ass is high in the air, my shins on his thighs, my feet wrapped around his waist. We are both thrashing, moaning, throbbing with one another in perfect harmony. Such pleasure rarely came with the years of trying to please a lifetime partner, so how is this possible? How could this be so commanding, so all-consuming? He pulls me expertly, back and forth, back and forth, until he cannot bear another minute. His testicles slap rhythmically against my clit. I can feel the size of his manhood fill every tiny spot of my passion. I am hard myself, matching his thrusting with a rhythmic beat.
He stops suddenly just as a loud burst of lightening fills the room. Was that him or the storm? I can’t tell and as the windows shake, he pulls my backside tightly to him. I arch my back on his dick and sit up, my hands back above his head and his hands on my breasts. Screaming, we come together, moaning, exhausted, wet, throbbing, sweaty. Spent, I sweep the hair from my face back along my forehead as we fall to the bed.
“Let me look at your face,” I say. “I want to memorize this moment; remember your face forever.” He rolls onto his back and I look at his face, holding it in my hands, resting my breasts upon his chest, familiarly, intimately, as lovers do.
“You saved my life today. Were it not for you, I would be joined with my husband, where I thought I wanted to be. But more importantly, you saved my future. You have proven to me that I have life in me yet, and love to give.”
And I cry softly, in gratitude and sadness. My passion is sated, for the moment, and my stranger gives me a knowing smile.
“We have all night to ride out the storm,” he whispers, looking out the window at the ebbing storm. “Let me touch you.”
“You already have, deeply, forever.”
I smile at my stranger, my storm lover, as he starts to become aroused again. Folding myself into his arms, leaning into his building erection, I release myself, turn over my desires and my pleasures to him completely.
Originally published July 2010