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Who's a lucky girl then!

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: Flightcrew737 Posted on: 15 Jul 2006 1 comments
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I always thought, or perhaps hoped that it would happen in a crowded place. Somewhere where bodies were pushed together innevitably. Somwhere where the dank presence of sweaty bodies mingled with the roar of the subway. It did not happen this way, in fact, nothing could have been further removed from that setting. Is it possible to lose virginirty more than once? I believe it is, for each fantasy that becomes reality is rite of passage in some way isnt it? Each act that one has not done before is its own 'first time.' This encounter has affected me profoundly and on a level that is so far removed from basic sensuality that I find it hard to comprehend.So it was that hot Thursday afternoon that I found myself in the stillness of the National Gallery in London. Very few people had chosen this venue as a place to get out of the scorching heat that, in the centre of London can never be cooled by a costal breeze. I didnt notice him before his hands touched me. In an empty gallery, i felt his hands around my waist and him pulling me backwards towards him. Was i really that obvious? Were the signals I was giving out subliminally so unmistakable? Probably, because I didnt resist, even when I felt him already hard beneath his trousers. I didnt reject the kisses on my neck, or the way he gently slipped his hand under my t shirt to cup my bra-less breast. I could smell his aftershave and it made me dizzy with lust, not because it was cheap and overpowering, more that it was expensive and subtle and mingled with his man-scent so perfectly. The pinacle of my sex wept tears of anticipation into the sacred vault of my vagina which, in turn released it into the waiting recepticle of my panties. He kissed my neck and ear so perfectly that I was aroused in an instant. His left hand had a life of its own as it squeezed and tease my small breasts into taught excitement. His right hand moved down, to dance a waltz of love with my tummy piercing, and then down, over the flatness of my tummy to ride my short skirt up and feel the intense heat radiating from my now wanton cunt. It is strange that a romantic encounter sometimes seemlessly moves into base lust. I glanced down at his hand, surely a musicians fingers. Long and elegant as they were, they found my moist slit through the damp material and stroked the furrow of my quim with delightful pressure. I could already feel the orgasm building. All he would have had to do to make me cum was utter a single word, no matter what that word was. Instead, he brought me to the threshold with the ease of an accomplished lover. My breath was coming in short sharp spurts when he pullled me backwards into the darkened shadows of the Old Masters, whose canvases need to be protected from the full glare of day. The bench received him as he sat down easing me onto his lap. It was not his hand that reached behind for his cock, but mine, unbidden and as natural as my next breath. The moment of hesitation came and went in a heartbeat as he uttered the only word he would say. "Wait". Both his hands disappeared behind me leaving me screaming with the need to be touched. How thoughtful, how considerate, this elegant man. When his hands reappeard, I could smell the familiar scent of the condom he had just placed upon his cock. All that was needed was a simple lift and reposition and he was engulfed in me. To the outside world, all that would be seen was two lovers, the girl sitting upon the man's lap admiring those ancient brush strokes that had produced such timeless beauty. Each movement that I made gave him deeper entry to me. I began to look in detail at the paintings. I could see where long sweeping strokes had been taken and where shorter, more urgent stabs of the brush were used to highlight a deatil here, a change of light there. It was as if we were one. The paintings and I. I squeezed him with my cunt. I allowed long movements to be interspersed with short. I painted my own canvas upon that all inrtusive cock. I felt his stiffen and knew that I would cum with him. A few more strokes of my vaginal brush and he was there, as was I. Two silent orgasms ripping through two total strangers as I completed the masterpiece of our union. When it was over, when we had both come down from the pinacle of perfection that we had both known, he eased me forward and off him. Something told me that to turn to see my annonymous lovers face would be to cheapen and degrade the moment. I could here him adjusting this trousers behind me. Then he stood, and brushing my hair to one side placed a single kiss upon my cheek. He walked away from me and only when I knew he had left the gallery in which my fantasy had been fulfilled, I turned.There, on the bench was a single red rose.Commentary.(In case there is any doubt, this really did happen on Thursday afternoon. I suppose I have over-romaticised this encounter, but I swear to you, this was how it felt. It could so easilly have been cheap. A nasty little fuck in a gallery but it didnt feel like that at all. The feelings I had were really those I described above. I suppose I had dressed provocatively, but then nowadays I do that a lot. I also think that I had encouraged him to follow me, but I am not aware of having done so. He must, of course have been very sure that my reaction would be one of acceptance. Somehow, I know he was an educated, sensitive man. I dont think that some men would have picked up on the subtlety of it all. He wasnt huge, but the orgasm he gave me was soul shaking. I did catch a glimpse of him as he walked away. He was wearing a very expensive suit, and he looked the sort of man who would wear a flower in his lapel. As you know, those who read my writings, I have long wanted a 'faceless fuck'. I alwasy assumed, in fact, probably wanted it to be a brutal almost savage engagement. I hadnt dreamed it would be something like this. I must admit, it has affected me far more deeply than I thought it would. I want to meet this man again. I have no idea where to find him. But I will visit the gallery again at lunchtime which was when this happened. If I am to be totally open and honest with you, ( and please, if this naext statement makes you laugh, dont tell me) I should admit that I think I am in love. I know, stupid, silly to even think it. But there was something about this. It wasn't a man getting his rocks off with some dumb slut. There was, I dont know, a 'giving' element to it. Maybe I will be fortunate enough to meet him again.I have heard of people meeting their 'soul mates' and instinctively knowing that this was the person. There is a lovely poem that begins "Yes. Yours, my love, is the right human face. Yours is the touch that is mine alone. Yours the spirit that will travel with me through the mortal coils of this human life... ) Although I never saw his face, I know that I would recognise him should I see him again....wish me luck?