But it was the sex I remember most. God, to completely wrap yourself up in a woman, to blend with her and become one with her, someone who’s never been with a man before when you’ve never been with a woman. It’s like two worlds become one. Romantic, I know. But the actual love making was anything but.
We left the small chapel near my home, decorated by my parents the best they could, and rode by horseback far away, to a small cabin I was able to rent for the price of a handmade wooden table and chairs.
She was nervous when I led her through the front door. I was nervous too. It was a bit chilly and our breath mixed together in the frosty air, like two swirls of smoke getting to know each other before our bodies did.
We wasted no time. As soon as we entered and I lit a lantern, she smoothed back the bed sheets, stripped off her clothes, and lay naked on her back. I could do very little but watch in awe. I removed my clothes and stood at the side of the bed, completely naked, but unmoving. I just stood there. I don’t know why. But I couldn’t move.
And I remember my cock thumped, pulsating with each beat of my heart. It was so stiff and she wasn’t even looking at me. She had her eyes closed as if waiting for a surprise. I suppose I was the gift she was waiting to receive. Me, Santa, the gift giver. Makes me laugh now that I think about it.
***
Outside my room at the North Pole I hear the faint whisper of elves humming the tune of Silver Bells. It’s like they’re trying to set the slow, romantic mood for my story. It’s perfect.
***
So as I was saying, I was just staring down at her body. She was so pale. Her skin was soft and smooth, like porcelain or something. Her body had curves, hips wide and meant for bearing children, and her breasts were large and soft, drooping slightly to her sides as gravity took hold.
Her pussy was unshaven. That was the way it was back then, no racing stripes or bald skin. She was hairy but so fucking beautiful. Without even touching her I imagined what it would be like to place a hand there, to comb my fingers through her hair, and to touch her. I didn’t know what it would feel like. I had nothing to compare it to. I imagined it soft.
Her eyes popped open and she looked at me, focusing on my face, as if afraid to look lower. But then she did. Her gaze ran down my chest and to my cock. She couldn’t take her eyes off me. She swallowed hard and her eyes were stretched wide. Her chest heaved and I realized how nervous she was.
“It’s ok,” I remember saying. “You know me.”
“I do.”
Those two words, so simple, never left my mind. I do. She said them at our wedding and she said them that night in bed and she said them one other time.
But I’ll tell you about that later.
***
In my North Pole room, I look over at Marlena and watch as her chest heaves. The sound of her wheezing is louder than the music outside. I take a swig from my glass and return to my pen and paper.
***
There she was, lying on her back in all her magnificence. I truly believe God is an artist for when he sets his brush to a canvas like Agatha, each stroke is brilliant and each shade is a celebration of perfection. Agatha was a masterpiece.
As I stepped closer to the edge of the bed she spoke up.
“Can I touch it?” she asked.
“Always,” I replied, “You never have to ask to touch me. I’m yours. It’s yours.”
She smiled, liking that. She reached out and lay her right hand over the top of my shaft, pressing down a little with her fingertips, as if reaching out to pet a strange and exotic animal. She waved her hand over it and as her index finger brushed the rim of my head, my nerve endings lit up and I lifted on my toes.
“It feels good?” she asked.
I only nodded. I was shivering. It was cold in the room but her touch was so warm and my desire was taking over.
She ran a thumb down over my head and swirled it around at the tip.
“What is this?” she asked.
She held her thumb up and it was wet. She touched her fingers together and rubbed it in.
“Oh my,” she said. “Very slippery.”
She patted the bed next to her. “Come. Be with me.”