Free Wanting Rita by Elyse Douglas

petrified.
    “It’s not so complicated, Alan James.”
    “…What?”
    “…I like you. Simple. I like you very much.”
    I couldn’t speak. Rita took me in for a moment, searchingly, and smiled. When she kissed me, her lips damp and soft, I shivered. My heart throbbed with the first wildness of true love, and suddenly and unexpectedly, I cried. All my defenses were breached and my senses were stung by a sweet and wicked bliss. My eyes were fully open and Rita saw the tears. She touched them in wonder and surprise, and kissed them, as the shadows danced around us. Feeling hopeless and ashamed, I looked away.
    “Hey…don’t turn away from me, Alan James. No, no, don’t turn away. No one has ever cried for me before. Ever. No one.” She took my head in her soft hands and looked deeply into my eyes. “It’s okay. It’s okay to want me. Wanting me is okay.”
    I reached for her with a new surprise, with a man’s strength, and pressed her lips against mine. They were moist and yielding. I quivered. The wind scattered her scented hair, and as it brushed my face, my erection pressed and ached.
    She helped me when I fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, but she didn’t rush; she kept her deliberate eyes on me. She released her bra, but allowed me the gift of peeling it from her breasts. I did so slowly, overcome and breathless. The leaves were wet with moonlight, and that same moonshine flooded her. As she tilted her head and gently lifted her torso, proudly, I released a labored breath. Her breasts were large, firm and straight, her waist naturally slim; her nipples erect. I touched them, held them, and felt the assault of love.
    It was a moment without thoughts; a moment of turmoil and excruciating desire. When she removed my glasses and flung away my shirt, she stared for a time, grinning. I shivered in the snappy wind. “It’s not the worst thing, Alan James. Not the worst.”
    Her nakedness exposed my own inner nakedness, breaking open something inside that began to pulsate and rise. She seemed to sense it and she coaxed it on with her wide, dreamy eyes. “Come on, Alan James. Come on, baby.”
    In a blur, our remaining clothes were tugged off and whipped away. She reached for my erection. Her touch sent me into spasms. She squeezed and pressed, without force. She came against me, allowing the full thrill, the ripeness of her body and spirit to have its mesmerizing effect.
    She nudged me backwards, and then lay down on top of me. Her breasts were warm and heavy on my chest. I was hot and cold, kissing her neck and hair.
    We tangled and played and rolled across the rough leaves and heard distant thunder that made the moment seem destined and primordial; an acknowledgment by the gods that this extraordinary moment was blessed, sacred and inescapable. When she straddled me, I was surprised. I panted, hotly, unsure, confused, seeing a hunger in her eyes.
    She handled and guided me, slithered down the length of me, with a shutter and a gentle cry. I faltered, as if struck. We remained motionless for a time as she waited, eyes shut tightly. I pulsed.
    Then something deep gathered into a force—a rage of startling passion—and it compelled me to action, a steady drive for satisfaction. Rita was stirred by it, meeting me with a cry of pleasure, drawing me to her, with a poetry of touch and kisses. It became simple then. We kept finding each other, by abandoning, discovering and sharing. Our eyes met with a shock of pleasure, our march to gratification steadily escalating.
    I felt the start of a tremor, the swelling of desire—of loss, of grace, of death. I saw the taut muscles in her neck, saw the growing strain and urgency on her face. I slid in and out of madness, helpless now under the currents of a savage sensation.
    When she cried out into the sky, a rocking agitation found a sharp release. The end of longing, fantasy and passion poured into Rita with a driving desperation—with a prayer that my seed would