OFM Lust: Hungry for More than a Candlelit Dinner

Alondra invites me over while she’s housesitting for her neighbor, where she tells me she’ll be alone all weekend. I’ve had a crush on her for the three months we’ve been hanging out as friends, so I accept. I’ve wanted to ask her out, but I haven’t asked her out because I’m only 88 percent sure she’s bi. Tonight, I hope to find out for sure.

I look at myself in the mirror while getting dressed to meet up with her. I want to look seductive, but casual. I pull a pair of black, velvety, high-waisted leggings up my smooth thighs, then drape my lace kimono over a snug, black tank top. I imagine Alondra sneaking stolen glances of my subtle cleavage pressed against the seam of my top while I pour us drinks. I feel confident, aroused. 

I feel as though I can sense her intentions, that she wants me as much as I want her, and I trace my fingers lightly over my left breast, imagining that it’s her hand and not mine. I lean forward and pout my lips at my reflection in the mirror, smoothing on a layer of deep purple lipstick. To complete the look, I slip my moonstone necklace over my head, then head out the door.

I met Alondra late spring at a festival—the kind of festival attended by spiritual seekers, witches, and yogis. She was wearing all white with gold-and-white paint polka-dotted across her brow and cheekbones. She is prettier than most, with full lips and an hourglass figure that make my cheeks flush when I look at her. 

Her energy that day was electric, her smile big and inviting as she animatedly recited poetry from the stage in the festival’s open mic tent. When I approached her after the reading to compliment her work, we ended up talking the rest of the night, happy to discover we lived only a few miles apart. I remember blushing at the way her soft pink lips came together when she said the word “magic”—the two of us comparing our witchy rituals. 

As I stand with my finger on her neighbor’s doorbell, I vaguely wonder if she’s ever set an intention to draw me to her, because I feel as though an invisible cord has been tugging me in her direction since that day at the festival. My underarms tingle with sweat, but as soon as she answers the door I’m immediately at ease.

“I’m so happy you came!” she exclaims, filling up the living room with her tie-dye skirt as she swirls around, taking me by the hand into the kitchen. I feel a pulse between my thighs at her touch.

In the kitchen I’m surprised to find a table set for two and lit by candlelight. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” she says, turning to face me and looking deep into my eyes.

In that moment I know I don’t have to guess any longer at her intentions because the way she’s looking at me, and the way she says “hungry,” make it clear that she’s craving more than a candlelit dinner.

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In a bold move, I place my hands on her full hips and gently guide her pelvis into mine. Her intake of breath confirms her arousal, and I reach up, gripping her long wavy hair in my hand and tug it back, ever so slightly. I don’t say a word. I don’t have to. Our bodies speak for us, in tune with one another, as though we’ve been lovers in another life.

With her head tilted back, I trace my lips up her throat to her ear, flicking her earlobe with the tip of my tongue. She moans with pleasure, then pushes me against the fridge and slips off my kimono. Without noticing, my elbow bumps the ice dispenser and two ice cubes clink to the floor. Alondra looks down at them with a mischievous smile, then bends over to pick them up, giving me a generous view of her braless breasts. Her nipples are hard, and darker than mine. She catches me looking and hands me one of the ice cubes, signaling that she’d like the ice to go where my eyes are surveying.

The ice cube melts against her hot flesh, my own heat turning momentarily to chills as she runs the other ice cube down my spine, both of our tops now crumpled on the floor. I’m so turned on I’ve forgotten where I am. I glide my free hand up and under her flowing skirt, finding that she’s swelled and dripping wet. Her eyes roll back at my touch and the ice cubes roll down our skin to the floor.

We kiss ravenously, my hand working her pillowy clit until she buckles, speechless in the height of her ecstasy. Then from the floor she slips down my leggings and glides her tongue into my ready and pulsing slit, expertly bringing me to a screaming orgasm within minutes. Once I catch my breath, I collapse to the floor with her, both of us giggling with satisfaction.

“I’ve wanted that since the moment I met you,” I say into her fragrant hair as I caress her rising and falling belly with my fingers.

She sighs into me, then with a big, half-drugged smile, she says, “Now I know what my next poem will be about.”