My Sexy Rendezvous with a FB Girlfriend

When I first met her on Facebook, I did not believe she was real. Her words were exquisitely strung together in her poems, her thoughts were raw, and her intellect was fierce. I could sense her hunger for knowledge and search for the meaning of life. I felt her desperation to make sense of all things and find raw beauty in the ugly, and the fruit of her efforts made the ugly beautiful.

She didn't know it, but we had a lot in common. I, too, had a demon I couldn't get rid of. The difference from what I could deduce was that my core was black and grey while hers was red and still fresh.

So, when I received a photo of her, I was more convinced that she was using one plucked out of the internet or beauty catalogues. Her face was perfection and could have hung at the Louvre. I would have died for her body many times over. She had an innocent look about her in stark contrast to her poems. It was astounding. I only began to doubt my suspicion when she sent me multiple photos of the same person. It took a while before I accepted that such a beauty tossed with sensuality and intelligence existed within my realm of reality.

Then I didn't know what to do.

Her sexuality was intense and at the forefront of her psyche. My sexuality was timid and still a seedling. Still unknown to me was its final shape, texture, colour, and scent. I began to distance myself from her because her sexuality was overwhelming. My insecurities, and uncertainty about what I wanted and not what I should want, made the exploration challenging.

Then I moved back to Toronto, and that changed everything.

It was she who proposed that we meet. I would have been happy to stay comfortably distant and safely shrouded in the unknown. I was happy knowing her deep and superficial sides and nothing between. But not Chantal. She needed to see, touch, feel, and breathe me in. She wanted to know me inside and out. I was hesitant to meet the three-dimensional being. I knew the depth I would fall if I cracked my heart open even a little.

I knew even before we met that I was in trouble. Yet, somehow, I sensed that she would slip from my grasp again and again. She would merge her soul with me only to fly away because what can tortured souls do except scream and thrash where no one can hear them? But I also knew that she would be worth the heartache, that knowing her for a week would be enough to satiate me for a lifetime.

I saw her through the window of a French bistro in Manhattan. Shielded by the window's reflection and glare of the sun, she was ethereal. When I was near the café door, her eyes followed me. I couldn't recall anything that enthralled me before her. Her long straight hair was glossy, her eyes radiated complexity, and her luscious body was wrapped perfectly in a black dress that hugged her in all the right places.

I sat across from her without a word. A hint of a smile curled her lips, and a speck of naughtiness in her eyes teased. We stared at each other for a long while without either feeling the need to speak. It seemed a simple act, but it was much more. I wanted to sit and observe if her face flushed, her graceful fingertips fidgeted, how she drank her coffee, and if she licked her lips afterwards. I wanted to know how vast the space between us would become if we sat silently. I was curious if it would crack from tension, bubble from passion gathering strength, or become murky with disinterest. I wanted to fill in all the little gaps between us and create a whole image of her as quickly as possible.

The strength of her green absorption disoriented me. And her mouth, I knew of the magic that mouth spoke but knew nothing of how it must feel, taste, and move. I knew that once I crossed the threshold, I would be forever hungry for her body, mind, and soul, wherever that may be. The threshold, it turned out, was gazing into her eyes.

Then I reached for her hand, which was the beginning of her. The air between us was hot and thick. My mind ached to know the feel of her while my body already knew we would fit effortlessly. The exhilaration of knowing someone intimately for the first time extended to my gut. Then I melted when our fingers interlinked.

We stood in unison as if we had spoken, and she led me to her apartment. I wanted nothing more than to explore the other side of her, the carnal side that I could hold, breathe, and taste. I would hold passion in my hand by holding her.

We walked hand-in-hand to her apartment. Her apartment was on the second floor of a modern, shiny building, much like her externally. She held my hand as I followed close behind her on the staircase. Her ass under the tight dress swayed side to side, and the pent-up need pooled in my groin. I could have walked the stairway to heaven while admiring her ass.

Her living area was as I had imagined. It was the apartment of a thinker, poet, intellectual, and woman who loved the female form. But, it was also the apartment of a fragile spirit and hardened soul. It was full of pretty, strange, ugly, and surprising elements. And yet, when examined closely, they revealed their cohesiveness and splendour.

Chantal poured two glasses of chilled wine and handed me one. It wasn't that I was a sex-crazed woman who wanted her for carnal pleasures. I don't usually rush into physical intimacy unless the situation calls for it. With Chantal, studying her apartment assured me of my assessment of her. I decided that I knew her where it mattered and that I would fill in the factual gaps in due time. I needed to know her more intimately, like I needed my next breath. I suppose it was part possessiveness, part obsession, and part akin to any creature exploring its habitat for survival.

We stood in her kitchen by the breakfast bar, our heels clicking on the tile floor with every step. I tilted my head in approval when she brought out the strawberries. I took half a bite and let the juice flow down my throat. She did the same, and I watched as the pink extract pooled in the corner of her mouth. Her graceful neck moved as she swallowed, and the veins beneath her fair skin seemed to feed my heart. My chest overflowed with need, and I stepped close to her. I tiptoed to reach her mouth and gently licked the sweet nectar. Then I nipped at her lips with mine. I wanted to be tender with her first because she deserved to be treated sweetly. I also knew I would not be pacifying the hot blue flame inside me for much longer.

I held my wine glass to her lips, and she took a sip. I licked her lips with my tongue, savouring their sweetness and sourness of the grapes. Her lips were soft and moist like a petal with morning dew. I held the glass to her mouth again, and she parted her lips. After the initial sip, I let the liquid flow over her chin and then to her neck. Hungrily, I drank from the pathway, then ran my hot tongue down her throat. I followed the route of the wine to the swells of her breasts and dips of her cleavage beneath the dress. The hint of her breasts promised abundance, lusciousness.

The strap of her dress slid off easily. I impatiently revealed her breasts, the perfect curves of her tits causing instant throbbing in my pussy. Her smooth and round breasts were perfect. They overflowed in my hands and felt luxurious in my mouth. My tongue followed the trail of wine to her pink nipple, and I licked it eagerly. I cupped and squeezed her flesh while my insides writhed with greed.

When her nipples became red with my unwavering attention, I stood and kissed her mouth hard. I held her head firmly in my hand, taking from her mouth what I could. Our tongues chased and connected frantically. I pushed her dress down the rest of the way until it piled around her feet.

I kicked it out of the way and poured the wine over her breasts. She shrieked a little from the cold sensation, her smile brightening her face and igniting my unchecked passion. As the wine made its wet mark on her body, I knelt and licked it off with my tongue. I faithfully started from her tits, then moved down to her navel, where the liquid had pooled. Then with so much anticipation and arousal, I licked it off her lower belly. I became drunk when I soaked in alcohol from her neatly trimmed bush.

I finally breathed a sigh of relief as I settled my mouth over her pussy. The tension left me, and I felt I had arrived where I most wanted to be. I backed her up against the breakfast bar, where she spread her arms and rested them on the counter. I ran my palms over the back of her thighs. My hands surveyed the perfectly full ass, and I searched for the crack while thoroughly exploring her hidden place with my tongue. I wet my finger and brushed it against her asshole, massaging it gently while my mind demanded to know the softest parts of her.

I left no dips or softness untouched by my tongue. I left a moist trail along the edges of every fold. I pressed my tongue into every cavern and drank the delicious nectar she offered from her pussy. When she tilted her head back and exhaled, I worked my tongue on her swollen clit. I clutched her ass with my free hand, moaning as I splayed her crack open and failed to remain grounded. I relished the growing hardness of her clit with the strokes of my tongue.

As she pressed her pussy against my mouth, I slipped my free hand between her thighs and penetrated her with three fingers. I curled and pressed my fingertips against her erogenous spot, exploring and watching her reaction. And finally, when she arched her back and moaned sensuously into the space still thick with unsatiated thirst, I sucked her dry. With my hands clutching her ass and my head fitting snuggly between her firm thighs, I drank her, swallowed her, and made her mine.

Get Mihwa's steamy and funny Regency romance novel on Amazon: Saving the Marquess.

https://www.amazon.com/Saving-Marquess-Historical-Marriage-convenience-ebook/dp/B0C2X8FB7F/ref=sr_1_1?crid=19ROIZRI1JQUI&keywords=mihwa+lee&qid=1687962160&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C222&sr=1-1