Orange Moscow
An orange Moscow evening. October. Not quite cold yet, but no one goes out without jackets anymore. It gets dark early now. At this moment, I especially feel everything that was there during our first and only meeting.
and innocently, but always as if peering into the very soul with a slight smirk. She constantly asked me about my past (I always brushed it off with a joke in such moments). One might have thought she was simple and frivolous, but as always happens, that was just the first, deceptive impression.Our meeting turned out to be something unexpected for me. No, of course I knew I would see her in person now, but it happened as if by itself. She came to me, still smiling innocently. Her light, loose hair this time was hidden by the dark fur on her jacket. Blue eyes, in which you could search for eternity for a long time. We walked along the orange streets until dark, talking about everything and nothing, sometimes touching on topics that sent shivers down the spine, and a lingering pause hung in the air.
All that evening, I felt a sweet aroma emanating from her, a mix of her perfume, cosmetics, and something else… She took my hand and joyfully pulled me forward, insisting that I show her something. And I knew what I wanted to show her.
Orange Moscow. Endless rooftops disappearing somewhere into the night, tiny car lights flying back and forth. A light breeze plays with her hair. She stands on the shared balcony of a sixteen-story building, holding her breath, either from the height or from the view that opened up. And I can't think of anything but her.
I approached her from behind and hugged her slightly. For the first time, I was so close to her. She froze. I'm simply losing my mind from her scent. My hands seem to start stroking her on their own, while I'm a centimeter away from her face. I kiss her neck on the side, just below her ear. She remains just as motionless above, but below she presses against me. Undoubtedly, she feels my erection. "You smell so delicious," I whisper to her, and run my left hand from her stomach to her neck. "You too…". Still pressing against her from behind, I kiss her tender pink lips. She is so delicious, and her little tongue… I can't tear myself away, I want to kiss her so badly. I unbutton her jacket and feel how hot she is underneath. With my hand, I press the lower part of her stomach against me. She is so soft there… I stopped kissing her and with my left hand lightly pressed her neck to me. My heart was pounding in my chest. I stroked her below, and she seemed to lean in to press even harder. I wanted her here and now, wanted to undress her, wanted to feel her.
It pulsed so hard that she must have noticed it through two layers of jeans. I lowered my hand further and felt her short hairs with my fingertips. Every centimeter I descended sent shocks through our bodies. Lower… I feel how tender she is… Hot… Her little lips… My finger slips between them on its own. She burns. I kiss her neck again and press her to me much more insistently with my left hand. She stands with her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open, pressing herself into me. My lips explore the velvet of her skin millimeter by millimeter, while her lips embrace my finger below. I desperately want to press against her for real. I unbutton her jeans and, without stopping kissing her, pull them down to mid-thigh. Following them, I slide down her thin panties. With my right hand, I stroke her there again, while my left hand unbuckles my belt. While I'm doing this, she presses her butt against me, moving against me. Finally, I pull down my pants and press against her. With my hand, I lower it so it's between her legs. I want her.
I don't think anyone could have seen from the side how two figures merged into one on one of the city balconies that orange night. It's hard to assume that anyone heard the moans of all-consuming sex carried by the wind over Moscow. But one thing is certain: no one was as happy that night as we were.