I'm a lot more nervous than I expected to be as I walk down the hall of the motel towards the room you said you'd be in. After the weeks of emailings, the arrangements and planning, the night is finally upon me, and my palms are sweaty on the cellophane- wrapped roses, my stomach twisted with tension, my head spinning with the floral but musky aroma of the blossoms.

I stand for a moment outside the door, caught for a time between desire and dread, desire built from nights furiously typing and breathlessly reading, dread from the knowledge that dreams are such fragile blooms, easily lost or ruined by reality. I finally knock, once, twice, though my arms are tingling and my legs seem too long. And, miracle! the door opens, and your head peeks around over the security chain, and you smile as you see the flowers and catch the signs of my nervousness.

"My dear," you say, and step back to unfasten the chain, welcoming me to my dream's fufillment, but it is a hard, long step across the threshold into your waiting room, your welcoming arms. I hand you the roses as I close the door behind me, and you take them quickly and set them aside and step up to me and tilt your face up, waiting, and suddenly my arms are around you and your full, rich softnesses are pressing against me and our lips touch like feathers then like caresses and then there's just a long wide primal timeless time and we're both flushed when we open our eyes again. "Oh, my dear," you say again in a very different voice, and "Lover," I reply with a nearly unconscious caress of your swelling breasts, and then you're recovering the forgotten roses and leading me into the room.

You sit on the bed, and I retreat, overwhelmed for the moment, to a chair, and we take a moment to study each other, comparing reality to the sterile flatness of our photographs. You see a tall, thin man with fine light brown hair, generous lips, and full nose topped by baby blue eyes with delicate, almost feminine lashes and bushy eyebrows in a face with smooth skin and fine laugh wrinkles around the corners of the eyes. I'm wearing a loose sweater, t-shirt, flannel-lined jeans, and a dimple in one cheek beside the smile. I see you, your full figure and delicious breasts concealed only physically behind silky bone-white blouse and dark slacks. You've kicked off your shoes and I find my eyes lingering on your feet, your hands, the flesh of your neck and upper chest visible between the top buttons of your blouse, and finally your face, lips curled in a smile. I grin back at you, the ice broken, the inspection over for the moment. "How about a drink?" you ask, and I'm treated to the sight of you rising, the fabric of your clothes caressing your soft place, your breasts, your belly swelling over the restricting waistband of your pants. I fondle you with my eyes as you pour small glasses of cognac, and you smile knowingly in return as you catch me admiring you. You stand close beside me to hand me the drink, and the rich carmel bouquet of the liquor mixes delightfully for a moment with the hint of your scent, a warm, rough musk that amplifies the tingle that rushes round my body when your fingertips linger for a moment on my wrist. You sit on the corner of the bed close to me, and our bodies adjust to each other's presence by opening legs, leaning together, and gestures that approach and knit intangible stiches joining our personal spaces. We talk of little intimacies, warmed by brandy and the warm room and the growing knowledge of our mutual desire.

You finish your drink, and as I linger over the dregs of my own, you look into my eyes and announce, "I 'd like to show you something, Richard.

" As the cognac trails its burn down my throat, you slowly unbutton your blouse, trailing your fingers over your revealed flesh, tantilizingly showing more and more.

Your fingers wander to caress your breasts, your breath quickening but your stare locked onto my eyes as you outline the landscape of my desire.

You unsnap the front catches of the bra, and the taunt silk pulls away to uncover the edges of your tits, but your nipples and most of your aureolas aureoli? remain hidden as you continue to unbutton. I tear my gaze away from your unwavering eyes and watch, transfixed, and you finish unfastening your blouse and gently pull the tails out of your pants. A deep breath escapes me as you suddenly pull back your blouse and cups and your breasts are there at last for my inspection.

I set aside my empty cup and kneel before you, examining closely and carefully, my hands now resting on your knees. I lean forward slowly, oh so slowly, drawing in a deep breath and the delicate aroma of your skin. With infinite gentleness I kiss the tops of your breasts, your chest, and finally we're face-to-face again and my big, strong hands are stroking the sides of your belly and we're kissing again and again and playfully toying and diving back in for more kisses and kisses. We pull back for a moment, stares locked again, and then I gently push you back on the bed and begin the long, long process of oral exploration.

I work your lips again for a while, kissing and tongue-touching but pulling away from long deep mutual kisses, my body arched over yours, hands now massaging your sides and armpits and the outside swelling of your breasts, and then I slowly grind my ridgid length into your crotch before arching again to start the downward journey. I outline your neck with tongue and kisses, and linger on your collarbones, defining with sucks and hollowing with tip of tongue, then tease your breasts with travels all around and about, dipping to sample the scent and taste of your armpits, touching to follow the creases below each swollen tit with tip of tongue, but never zeroing in to gobble the tender, taut nipples. You moan briefly as a approach and veer away, closer, minutely closer each time, until finally I feel your crotch buck up to touch my tender manhood as I reach the center of one full breast. You cup them, offering them to me to suck, to caress, to toy, to fondle, and I worshipfully accept and accept and give, each journey to center accompanied by a settling of my self over you, until my tongue movements are mirrored by my belly rubbing your crotch. At last I slide slower, lingering over tender belly, tongue-bathing you while I fondle and tease your lower thighs, outlining muscles and pulling at the sides of crotch and soft place but never touching, and now I lean away slightly, suspending myself over you again, touching only with lips and fingertips, teasing and teasing but progressing inevitably to center, to the source of a heavenly aroma that has my length straining against my pants.

When I've laved the belly just above your waistband again and again, I slide my hands up your soft place and grip the waist of your slacks, and I'm rewarded with an unexpected surge of your hips off the bed that presses the wet, stinky fabric covering your softness into my face, lightly but pungently coating my lips and nostrils with the musk of you. I keep my face nuzzled into you as I ever so slowly wriggle your pants down, carefully keeping your panties in place. I gather the bunched material of your pants crotch together for one more sniff before leaning back to draw them off. We stare at each other again as I toss them aside, and our gazes remain locked as I bend again to toy at the fabric tightly covering your love, my wetness drawing yours. I toy around each leg at the edge of your panties, probing and exploring, and you buck as my tongue describes that sensitive line between your crotch and your inner thigh. I slide my thumbs beneath the fabric and explore just a tiny bit further, brushing the very outermost part of your lips and the crack of your soft place and deeper over your pubic hair, moving the flesh just slightly, massaging your personal place from a distance, centering again with my hands as my lips and tongue explore your thighs.

Finally I can bear it no longer, and I draw off your panties and begin a new journey, the taste and feel and shuddering response of your other mouth. I lean forward once more and toy deeply from just above your soft place over your swollen, moist lips with their molten, warm wet center to the bump of flesh that is your hooded personal place. I feel your back arch as I lap upwards and then sag again after your personal place springs back gently from first contact, then arch again in anticipation as I nibble delicately at the skin between your soft place and thigh, my nose brushing a drop of your juice from your lips. I settle more comfortably on the floor and slide my arms around your hips so that I can brush and caress your belly and breasts while I feed, starting soft soft and delicate, tracing and exploring the surfaces and folds, dwelling briefly in secret cracks and depressions. You slide your thighs over my shoulders so that my head is almost completely engulfed in your most tender flesh, and I use as much of my head as possible to spread the stimulation, tickling with my hair, caressing with my ears, smoothing and stroking with cheeks and chin. I lap at the flesh around your love, covering the upper part of your inner thighs and the skin surrounding your lips with toys, then returning again to probe with harder strokes, seeking the tender places, gently restraining your bucking movements with my hands, then returning again to dig into those spots once more while my fingers gently knead and pinch your erect nipples. I cup your breasts and massage softly while moving in on your lips, first toying around the edges, then carefully unfolding the layers with probing tongue and lip nibbles, finally kissing, kissing, touch first like moth wings, then firmer, fuller, deeper, more tongue and more, but always your lips, never the personal place, though you strain to move it in the way of my exploration. At last, lips teasing with pungent juice, I kiss deep and deep, tongue slithering at your warmth, sliding in against your frantic pushing, out to lap frantically at your lips, swollen now and wet with our mingled excitment, in and out again but never deep enough, and I hear you moan in both pleasure and frustration. Suddenly I pull back and wipe my face against your thighs, toying to taste your combined teasings and salty sweat, and I pull back one hand to cup your soft place, thumb massaging the tenderness between sensitive place and love. I lean forward to surround your personal place with my lips, not touching with more than breath, warming and softening the tingling tip of your desire while one hand works a nipple and a thumb begins a slow, slow plunge into your burning soft core. Warmed, I begin toying towards and around your personal place, moving it but not touching, approaching but not arriving while my thumb moves around and around like a ship in a whirlpool, feeling every part of the entry, painfully slowly but inexorably entering you.

After a delicious time, I simultaneously lap slowly and deeply across your personal place, pulling back the hood to taste the raw wetness of it, plunge my thumb steadily and completely into your tight, pebbled love, and grasp and rub your aureole and nipple. You surge back on the bed with the sensation of it, then rock, whimpering, as I start the rhythm of the drive, piston pumping in you as I grasp and release your personal place with my lips and tease and caress you breasts and nipples. I work you steadily, pausing only to plunge and hold while I lap at lips and personal place, sopping up the juice that surges from your panting private part as I stroke it. I feel you building, building to some sort of climax: your nipples stiffen even more, and the feel of the flesh of your breasts and chest changes just slightly, softer, fuller, flushed now, a sign your melting tunnel swells, oozing even more subtly-different smelling secretion which drips down, coating the rest of my hand your personal place begins to try and pull away, and I let it duck partly into cover, massaging it through its hood, quickly darting to touch and tease with my tongue. You arch again and again, and mutter my name and other words too filled with primal emotion to make out. I push down on your ribs, stifling the bucking, and push forward with my shoulders until your legs are high, your soft place revealed. While pumping and toying I guide some of your juices to your puckered sensitive place, gently oh so gently coating the flesh around and the rough folds of it with your lube, and hearing your sudden maon of pleasure I slide my finger slowly, firmly into your soft place, circling and massaging the pulsing, tight sphincter while I furiously finger-play you and masticate your personal place.

I slide it in, out, probing a bit deeper each time, feeling my thumb pumping your love though the walls, playing you in both warmths, from both sides, massaging your inner walls completely. I work back and forth, first one in, then the other, then switch to both in, both out, furious but firm, deep but not ramming. And then, and then, I feel you come, a pulsing tightening thrashing come with inarticulate moans and wild pulsations.

Your soft place squeezes on my finger, throbbing and pinching like a biting mouth, and my hand is trapped at thumb and finger, hostage to your orgasm. I lean back a bit, observing your reaction and drying your trembling places with gentle breath, waiting for the pulse to cease. I stroke your belly with fingertips, warm your ridgid nipples with cupped palm, and rock my thumb and finger slowly gently, stimulating but not exciting as you come back to earth. And when you're back, I slide both fully in, holding you deep, and between toys of your swollen personal place poking from between engorged, red lips, bracketed by shaking thighs..I say, "Your turn."