Perfect White Shirt

I thrive in this charged environment, thinking fast and looking for cues on everyone’s face so I know where to go with my pitch. Plus, I get to travel and have my thoughts all to myself. The closest thing to a holiday for a mom like me is a tech conference. 

I love feeling like I’m good at what I do, but the last conference set the scene for my worst pitch to date. Last meeting of the day, zero energy left in me. Nine out of ten meetings are with men. This last one was no different. Except for the kind of man that showed up. 

I swear I noticed the air around him first, his controlled, confident moves. His smallest gestures were almost overpowered by his cockyness, but I saw them. There was softness and thoughtfulness supporting that wild charisma. By the time we made eye-contact I had lost my word wielding prowess and could only throw looks that begged for him to notice me. 

It felt so hilarious to be this pathetic that I actually let go of any intent to fake composure and just had fun with it. Nothing to lose, I thought to myself. 

His appearance was so carefully designed, all details in the right place, all fabric resting architecturally on his beautifully toned body. The collar of his shirt wrapped around his neck like his body was not meant to be constrained by etiquette. His searing eyes: blue, and smile: killer, made me stutter, so I had to avoid them if I cared anything about fluency. I still had to do the pitch, after all. 

Two minutes in he figured me out and reveled in my weakness. “Asshole!” I thought, appreciatively. If I could have rolled my eyes in annoyance over his confidence, I would have, but I was too caught up in his production to make any kind of judgement. 

Listen, I never thought of myself as a ten, lest if you consider my larger than life, tonic vibe. That added, I'm an eleven. And sitting across from this magnet of a man, I’m betting everything on it at the moment. I can’t just stare and smile, I have to start speaking. 

My words are all about the business. He can tell I am selling something completely different. Our energies are matched and he is hearing the other conversation loud and clear. I haven’t had this much fun in years! 

Event ends. Back to our lives. Me, a high-performing working mom with so much that comes with it. Him, an everything-is-yet-to-come, half achiever, half enjoy-the-moment type. Yes, younger. And such a good—no, perfect—match for the part of me I’ve been ignoring these past years. 

We’re both in solid relationships, not looking for trouble. Theoretically. And then he texts me. Once, twice, weekly. And we’re good with words. We. Are. So. Good. With. Words.  

We got to know each other like that for months until the next event brought us to the same country again. Voltage is higher than any one of us can contain, but we do the work we came here to do nonetheless.

I am crazy eager for this day to finish so we can finally meet privately, but I focus like it’s the Olympics, to prove to myself that I’m more than my desire for him. End of the day, I made it to the finish line, not without difficulty. I give myself the bronze and I proudly accept it.

No meetings, no sales goals, nobody around. Jesus, this was a long wait!

We make it to my hotel room untouched. He goes in first, and now he’s a few feet from the door, watching me step inside. I thought it, he said it before—it was obvious from day one that this was where we would end up. Lucky, really. What we did not know then was how well we’d know each other when we did. 

It’s hard for me to look into his eyes now that he’s here in front of me. But I build myself up and do it every once in a while. Like I did now. He’s standing in the same place as I come near. We’ve not left the entrance. I shut the door, and with it, all context and the notion of time go blank. I look at him and I only want one thing: Everything.

I ran this in my head so many times that I’m not sure which reality I’m consuming at the moment. 

Fact: I want to look at him some more. So we don’t kiss, we don’t touch.

He has that white shirt, no creases, that wraps a bit tight around his shoulders. I’ve commended that fabric on its strength in my head every time I saw him from behind.

I unbutton it now as I think about that. He moves to take it off, but that’s not what I had in mind. A different approach, please. His curiosity stays lit and he’s open to see where this goes. 

Him in the unbuttoned shirt alone. The shoes go, the socks go, the trousers go. Nothing left but the shirt. God, he looks so good! I’m dizzy from looking at his body and anticipating what could be next. And we still haven’t kissed. Not planning to, either. After all, we’ve become experts in keeping desire high without access to touch. 

I run my hands through the whole outline of his torso, his neck, his face, his mouth. His smile is just as hard to look at. My impulses tend to get intense but in time I learned that they do not kill, so I channel them, like a lightning catcher.

A shirt, stretching on his back. Electrifying.

We’re both buzzing with it, the electricity. After my mouth maps his collar bone and chest, I drop to my knees and wrap it around his cock. Not before I lick it from base to tip until everything drips and my hand glides freely, picking up where my mouth leaves off. 

His knees get just a little bit weak as I dig my hands into his thighs and take him all in my mouth. The sharper his breath, the more inspired I get about what to do next. I listen.

His breathing is getting me crazy aroused and impatience takes over. I bolt from my knees to find his lips so I can finally meet them with mine. Any thought I may have had is exiled from my head as my focus narrows on taste alone. Somehow it feels like I am tasting time. All the time that has led up to this moment is exploding on my tongue.

As I become aware of our surroundings again, he leads me toward the bed, his mouth never leaving mine. “Put me where you want me, how you want me” resonates in my head. Feels like less than a second until he undresses me. 

We’re on the bed; he slides his hand under me and effortlessly pushes me further up. His steady hold feels safe. I comply. Looks like he knows where he wants to go. His lips are trailing down from my neck to my breasts. His teeth turn my nipples into pebbles. His eyes burn through mine, and I can’t look away. My skin is open, my eyes are open, my breath is open, my mouth, my legs. Everything is an invitation he has accepted.

He moves further down as I make myself close my eyes, taking in each sensation as it comes. My senses are blurred and I don’t want the usual stray thoughts crashing in. “Think before you feel”, says the daunting mantra of my nervous system. I’m done with it! I am so ready to rewire that system. Starting now. Starting with fucking fearlessly.

My abdomen tightens as I feel the flick of his tongue on my clit. He loves that. I can’t control it anyway, so he takes advantage. We both laugh as he raises one eyebrow when he realizes he now has a remote to my spasms. His touch deepens, slow and deliberate and the pressure builds fast. Too fast. I am not ready to let go yet. I want him inside me. Now.

I drag him back up, my hands sliding from his back to the curve of his hips as I try to pull him in. I hear the words he did not speak. We are not rushing. Everything is already right. I try to quiet my drive, but it keeps accelerating. He flips me over and pours in some more waiting time. 

He likes to sense how much I want him, and every pore in my body is giving it away. His cock grazes the line of my ass as he leans in, kissing my neck while I dissolve under his weight. I want him inside me so much that my cunt has started to contract without him long ago. I turn my head to read how much longer he’ll make me wait only to find the same message in his demeanor. The point is being here, now.

We will just be.

It’s like he was expecting this to finally click in my head. Waiting time is over. He turns me around to face him and I feel his cock grinding on my clit. Uncontrollably I twitch. Watching his hands guide his cock inside me almost undoes me on the spot. I moan as if the torture has ended and I finally get some release. I’m already on the edge, ready to cum in a million ways.

But that’s not how it works. My body wants to know him better first. As we fall into the same rhythm, it hits me how good it feels to move together. We try everything out: slow, fast, hard, soft, stop, take a breath, change, smile, stare, laugh, play. He fucks the way he talks, attentive, tuned-in, always listening so he can give something back. It feels like everything we’ve said for months is finally living in my body.

He notices every shift in me, the catch in my breath, the way my body tightens, the quiet sounds I can’t hold back. I watch as he slows way down and becomes more and more deliberate. Every move lands with more impact. He is not experimenting anymore, he knows exactly what to do. No theatrics, just intention. 

I try to hold back and stay in the moment a little longer, but it’s become impossible. I clutch his arm with my left hand as I touch my clit with the other. Fireworks.

The double nature of the little death takes me by surprise. There’s this tiny sense of loss right after, so sharp it actually makes me laugh. It’s like this orgasm buried months of foreplay into one intense burst. 

As the aftershocks flow through me, I receive a message from all the orgasms I’ve had in his absence. They are jealous.

He is still open, warm smile, inquisitive eyes, insatiable and unknowing of the rainbow of energies that just left me. I wonder if his mind is running as much as mine. Doubt it.

He’s still very much hard and very much inside me. Our skin is connected in a full body embrace as I recover from the intensity of the orgasm. Feeling the weight of his body on mine puts me in a whole new mood. I start to move slowly as I kiss him some more so he knows I am ready to continue. 

He picks up the pace a bit. Unlike before, instead of following his moves I push back, and his thrusts are facing my resistance. Oh, the smile on his face as he starts putting more and more strength into them. I push against the headboard for stability and reposition my body so it can stand his force. He turns me around with no notice and continues to move deeper, harder, faster. 

My soft moans have turned into uncontrollable short grunts, gasps, groans. I can hear his breath quickening. His hands anchor me as I arch my back and grab whatever I can so that I can continue my resistance. 

My mind goes blank and I’m completely driven by my body in what feels like complete possession. I lost some of the words he said. In a few seconds I get what he meant, as he starts ramming into me even harder, until I feel his whole body tense up and release. For a while I can’t read his expression, whether he’s lit up, let down, or simply emptied out, but he’s still right there, catching his breath with me. 

I come to my senses noticing the ache along the tops of my thighs, tender, like a reminder I know I’ll still feel later.

It’s clearly time for a break from the bed. A sip of water, stretching upright, staring out the window for a moment to reset. This is a marathon, not a sprint. He disappears into the bathroom, and the room settles into quiet. 

I catch my reflection in the big mirror and study my body like it belongs to someone else. I love studying it, it looks real, it looks strong and it shows my age. My eyes land on my C-section scar, and I smile at its contradictions—all the selflessness of being a mom versus the complete selfishness of being here just for me, against better judgement. 

Whose judgement, I’m not sure, as I feel this is exactly where I am meant to be right now. However, it snaps me back into my head, and I instinctively reach for my phone, heart pounding, half expecting the world to have fallen apart without my supervision. It hasn’t. I have a bit more time to be selfish. 

Reality check done, I push the thought of us slipping back into real life aside and let myself drift fully into the room again. I spot the white shirt on the floor, lift it, slip it on unbuttoned, and climb onto the bed. 

I wait for him in a loose lotus, against the headboard, open to conversation but not ready to actually speak. Half a smile lifts the corner of his lip as he sees me there, wearing his shirt. He joins me, back against the headboard, shoulders touching. Words fill the room. 

We’re our chatting selves again. He wants to know how I’m feeling, I want to know how he’s feeling. He looks so fierce but says something corny and sweet. I start laughing at the cringe of it and jump over to offer a small appreciative kiss. The small kiss reminds us that we have had enough chatting and touching is still out of balance. It only took a peck to get our blood in a rush again.

I put my legs around him, his hands immediately take hold of my ass, and we kiss intensely as we reconnect. I could kiss him for hours. We stop to look at each other every once in a while, like we’re checking for flesh and bone presence. He grabs me tighter to amplify the rolling in my hips. Soon enough he effortlessly lifts me up so he can get inside me again. 

I am all wet, so his cock has zero trouble sliding back in. He’s watching me with that hungry focus and uses his hands to drive my waist up and down as he pleases. Feeling the full length of his cock in such detail turns every cell inside me into a point of ignition.  

He slides down on the bed with me on top. Sweat gathers on my chest as I ride him. His fingers trace through it, as we had both imagined they would if we ever got to meet again. 

He pushes the white shirt down my arms just so that he traps my hands tightly in his grip. He slips out from beneath me and takes me from behind, while taking hold of my wrists. As he takes control, I resent being unable to touch myself when I want. Partly. The other part of me is too aroused to get stuck on technicalities. 

There is a fine line between too little and too much and he is the one drawing it. Looks like he went to art school because he somehow matches his intensity to exactly what I can take, until my resistance melts into full permission. I’m terrible at holding back anyway, and he knows it.

Every inch of my skin feels wired. He caresses my waist, my back, grabs my breasts, my ass as his cock is hitting all the right spots inside me, and by now there are so many. No part of me is left untouched. 

I mirror the intensity of his thrusting in my breath, in my moans. I just got very loud as his fingers barely grazed my asshole. I can almost hear his eyebrow rising again as he gets confirmation about a new match between our preferences. We both start laughing again. 

He releases my hands so he can finger fuck me first. I let out a short “fuck” as he does that and I immediately contract into a surprise orgasm. My whole body shakes but I don’t want him to stop. He matches my wish by getting my asshole really wet before he pulls out from my cunt and moves up. 

Slowly he makes his way in, adding short breaks where needed, no rush. The new tightness has become a new source of wow for both of us. I love anal after a good couple of orgasms. It just feels right. His hands keep me grounded as everything aligns: no conflict, no bracing, just presence. 

And in that drop, I feel the shift: the rewiring taking hold, the sense of living from my core instead of around my fake fears. We stay there in the wow, letting it lead. By the time he is to cum we have blurred into one and it is both unclear and unimportant which one of us just finished.

Warm and quiet, we bask in our exhaustion. Our recovering breaths are the only soundtrack of the moment. The bed is a mess. The white shirt lies between us, all creases and proof. He’ll press it back to perfect tomorrow. I’ll carry the folds a little longer.