Talking to God

At first glance the house looks like all the other houses in the neighborhood—large Craftsman homes lining a maze of cul-de-sacs on a hillside. I’m surprised by the commonness of his taste, given his clear sophistication on the app, until I notice the front door, large and heavy with a circular iron knocker in the middle. I knock, and the door swings open. 

Maciek is tall and fit, with long limbs, dark curls, and blue eyes. He has a gorgeous mouth that frames perfect teeth, and a Russian accent on his tongue. I could tell from his profile pictures he was good looking—that and his apparent intelligence were the reasons I wanted to meet him in the first place—but I wasn’t prepared for physical chemistry like this. Chemistry, or lack thereof, is the reason my husband and I are beginning to explore dating other people. 

As he invites me in, I note several pairs of shoes near the door—women’s and men’s—and slip mine off. Next to the shoes is an imposing Steinway. Colossally shiny, it’s practically playing its own song. A sign on top, near the keys, requests that people kindly keep their beverages off the piano. It’s the first of many indications they entertain frequently. 

“I’ve played since I was a child,” Maciek says, gesturing to the piano. He expounds for a moment on his favorite composers and the superiority of the piano concerto in the classical music genre. Wrapping his soliloquy, he asks if I would like a tour. I nod, trying not to give away my overwhelming feeling that I’ve just walked into another world.

I let out a little gasp on first sight of the kitchen; clearly someone in their home loves to cook. “We designed this ourselves. Marin did all of this,” he says, pointing proudly to an ornately tiled wall behind the enormous, bronze range. He says his wife’s name as if we are acquainted. 

I want to know everything about her and nothing. I’m happy to pretend, just for the afternoon, that our partners don’t exist—that there is no one else to consider but ourselves. 

Upstairs, Maciek asks if I’d like a robe to change into. “Yes, please,” I respond. It feels like time to slip into something more comfortable and also to directly acknowledge why I am here. He disappears into a room he hasn’t mentioned—I assume it’s his and Marin’s bedroom—and returns with a black velvet robe featuring a massive dragon on the back. It’s lined with red satin. He thrusts it toward me in a bulky wad. I pause. 

“Oh!” he says. “Allow me.” 

He holds it open from the shoulders, inviting me to put it on as if he’s offering my coat following a swanky dinner out. 

I stand, frozen by the feeling my life is about to change. I don’t know how this foray into dating will affect me, but I’m already beginning to feel different; like I’m developing a private life, gaining autonomy from my marriage, beginning to remember who I was and all the things I’ve ever desired.

Maciek is waiting for me, holding the robe open, my invitation to undress. 

I start with my socks—slip them off, ball them up, and tuck them into my shoes, which are a few feet away. I pull my sweater off, careful to turn my head so my chin doesn’t catch on the turtleneck. I fold the sweater self-consciously and set it on top of my shoes. I don’t want to seem like I’m rushing as I slide my jeans off and fold them into a neat little pile on top of the tower my belongings are creating. I want to appear cool and calm, like I’ve done this before, and will do it again. But after nine years of only one man’s eyes on me, I can’t help but be nervous. It’s a relief to wrap myself in the robe.  

Maciek leads me into a thoughtfully designed room—the “chill space,” he calls it. We sit down across from each other. Through the thin fabric of his pants, I can’t help but observe he’s not wearing underwear. Heat rises in my chest and cheeks. I feel elegant but anxious. I’ve never had a Tuesday afternoon like this.

“Now, come here so I can eat your pussy.” 

Pleasantly shocked by his forwardness, I relocate myself on the legs of a fawn, unsure of my next move. Sitting down and spreading my legs seems indelicate. But Maciek makes short work of my shyness, placing a hand on each of my knees and glancing up for visual consent. When he notes my rapt attention, he spreads my legs wide, rubbing his hands down my inner thighs. I’m comforted that I still have underwear on—but then—not for long. Holding them at my hips he says, “I like these,” and then, like a surgeon conveying a simple procedure to his patient, “I’m going to take them off.” 

I’m exhilarated and slightly queasy as he pushes my knees back together to remove the last thing between me and uncharted freedom. I try hard to stay in my body as my head spins. This is exactly what I’ve wanted and I know I’ll only enjoy the experience to the extent I’m open to it. So I lift my hips to let Maciek slide my panties off. 

With an unobstructed view, he gazes at me between my legs, which are hovering somewhere between open and closed, then smiles and pushes my knees all the way apart. He blows cool air over me. Goosebumps form on my arms and legs. My nipples go hard. I remove my arms from the robe, surrendering all comforts.

He drops his gaze and licks me with a wide tongue from bottom to top, then pauses. He blows more cool air over my moistened parts and licks me again. In spite of my nerves, I am very wet, which surprises me. I don’t feel that connected to my body yet, or very easeful in receiving him. Then I realize it’s him, skillfully blessing me with his spit.

For the next twenty minutes his mouth is attached to my sugar, he’s gorging himself on my pussy as if ending a fast. He’s focused and intentional. My inhibitions fade as his enthusiasm becomes more and more apparent. I’ve never been with a lover who takes so much pleasure in my pleasure. I don’t feel worried about taking too long to orgasm, the way I look, smell, or taste, I have no sense that I want something he doesn’t really want to give. Without these concerns, I can fully savor the vast divine pleasure. 

After several minutes like this, he pauses for me to orgasm. Then, as soon as I can tolerate more sensation, he’s moving in me again—his tongue and lips, his nose and chin, his rolling fist, his whole face. He does things so mind bending I almost stop him to take note. It’s humbling, glorious. He has made me small and darling. I would do anything. 

Maciek rises to his knees and orders me: “Get on your back.” The shapes he makes with his mouth, his vaguely unusual choice and placement of words, his foreign accent—I obey. He motions toward the rug, finds three pillows and stacks them intentionally. All of my senses are awake—I’m watching, listening, feeling, memorizing.

For the next hour, he owns the scene, guiding or commanding me to serve his will. “Suck my cock.” “Now show me your ass.” He fucks me this way and that, tenderly, angrily, and every manner in between. He touches my breasts with honey in his fingertips and plunges to my depths with hunger in his cock, then in reverse—he squeezes my tits harder than anyone ever, and thrusts with such subtlety it’s as if he is talking to God. He opens my body to his world and dimensions beyond it. He races with me to the furthest edge and capably walks me back. 

In his hands, under his weight, straddling his hips, I feel something new in me called into being. I’ve never felt more alive. With his mouth, hands, cock, skin, and heart, he makes me into something new.

~~~~

As we rise and reorganize ourselves, uneasiness sets in. Minutes earlier I was roaming an enchanted garden of delights. Now the room just looked alien. I crave the comfort of my home. I want the reassurance of my husband. 

After a shower, we go upstairs. Maciek has located my bra and underwear and set them on top of the tower I’d left two hours earlier. It reminds me that this is not an isolated incident for him. He knows what to do next. I do not.

Incredibly fucked, quickly showered, and fully dressed, I face him. We hug and thank each other for the time. I have no idea what he’s thinking, much less feeling, or if I’ll see him again. I walk to my car in his driveway and get in, close the door. I take a deep breath and my eyes widen. I shake my head. 

“Holy fuck,” I said to the air. “Holy fucking shit.” 

I turn the key in the ignition, and head home. 

Photo by Nicolas Postiglioni