Zippers and Buckles

She wore black boots, small ones, size six. With gold buckles on the ankle and at the calf. A long gold zipper up the back. Thigh high stockings. A black skirt and white oxford. Her dark hair cascaded onto the white shirt in soft, welcoming waves. Her eyes a deep brown, mysterious and intense. Her skin pleasantly tan, even as the first cool days of autumn took hold.

Crisp, almost cold mornings and cool, inviting evenings. Warm sunny days. A favorite, fleeting time.

She worked in a basement office with a window at the ceiling so she could see the street, see the feet of the passersby, now mostly clad in boots or closed-toe shoes, reflecting the transition in the season. Now and then, some sandals still holding on to summer's warmth would pass, and she'd remember the feel of the warm sun on her own toes.

At 10 AM she had a coffee meeting. A friend from years gone by. A man she might have loved had they lived nearer or had either one made the slightest move. Instead, they played at being lovers, sharing writing and occasional texts.

They would always meet when one was in the other's town, have coffee, make mental love over pastries. Eyes would burn as they sat. Texts would fly as they parted. But never more than a hug or a touch of the hand between them.

He was nursing his coffee as she walked in. Wearing a simple blue oxford, khaki pants, and some smart brown lace ups. Like hers, his eyes were dark and intense.

He smiled as she walked toward him. They hugged, and she went to the counter to get her coffee. He relished the scent she left behind, light outside sweat mixed with the perfection that was her chosen perfume. The blend was exquisite.

As she ordered, he admired her boots, the zipper, imagined taking them off and ...

She was back before him now. Beautiful, in simple black and white. Steam mixing with her thick locks to create a dream-like image of pure beauty.

Nearing forty, he wondered why he hadn't before. Hadn't made a move. Hadn't invited her out to his home for a weekend. Hadn't happened into her town and taken her out. They clearly had a connection, but always seemed otherwise connected.

Both creative types, but both also very concerned with being proper and appropriate, not raising suspicion.

They each talked about their work. What they'd done in the months since they'd last met. What was ahead.

As she got up to leave after almost two hours at coffee, he asked if he could ... see her work.

She did have some new designs, she said. And her office was just a few blocks away. Was he sure he had time?

He was, he assured her.

As she got up and headed toward the door, he opened it for her. Admiring her scent and taking in the look of her boots as she walked out into the now warm mid-day air.

They entered the old brick building, took the wooden stairs down. White painted brick surrounded them, and the street level windows let in the noon-time light.

She walked to a table and showed him one of her drawings and then another. He stood right next to her, absorbing her words and her being and feeling oddly enchanted.

As she bent down to move another drawing over, he leaned-in behind her, and when she moved her body up to show him, he placed a hand on her cheek and pulled her to him, his lips grazing hers, then enveloping them. She gave in. Instantly. Kissing him back with the force of a decade of desire.

His mouth was on her neck as her hands explored his body. Buttons coming undone on her shirt... warm, sweet-smelling flesh exposed. He tasted her collarbone, her shoulder. His hands on her still firm ass.

She worked his belt loose. Unzipped his pants. Her hand warm around the heat of his throbbing member.

His kisses grew more intense, his desire apparently growing with them.

She pushed down his boxer briefs. Her shirt now off, she knelt before him, lace bra, black skirt, and those incredible boots.

She smiled at him and he melted when he saw her dark eyes glance up at him as her hand held his flesh.

Tongue tasting salty beginnings. Tracing down his shaft. Lips leaving a crimson stain on the thickness of his head. Lips and tongue up and down, and all the while, he's admiring her boots. Her legs. Her ass. Her warm skin and lovely breasts.

He wants her now. Now more than he ever has. Now or never, he surmises.

His hand on her chin, he guides her up.

Now, hands on her waist, placing her on the table.

Removing lace panties.

The head of his now slick, hot cock against her warm, wet opening.

Inside. Inside. The sweet pleasure of her flesh urging him further in. Her own moan exquisite.

He can see the shoes above them, through the window. He wonders if anyone will notice. And then he is lost. Lost inside her, his lips on hers as their bodies rock together, as the years of mind-fucking become the real thing.

He feels himself growing harder, hungrier inside her. She feels full, feels the pressure of him, feels a desire like no other. She wants nothing more than his full attention, his desire to be satisfied.

He tells her he wants her, has wanted her for so long. She tells him to take her, to take her now and forever.

He can't stop kissing her, tasting her skin, rejoicing the in the feel of her lips on his, the smell of coffee and perfume surrounding them as their bodies grow closer and closer.

One flesh, one passion. Her boots now around his waist as she begs him to go harder, to get closer, to not stop.

His thrusts harder, faster, urgent.

He grunts... again.. once more. He looks at her face, kisses her soft lips. And holds her, his cock semi-hard and still inside.

He tells her he can't believe it took this long. She tells him not to make her wait this long ever again.

She picks up her panties, puts her shirt on, and walks to the ladies' room. He adjusts his pants, buckles, and watches those tiny, sexy boots as they walk away. This time, though, they'll be coming back.