If on a winter night

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-03 08:12:12

Author: Shuiyue

If it's a winter night, and your woman (to a man)

is reading this story, please close your eyes and have your friend read it to you, because this is actually a story about you. A story about your first time, and about the woman who may or may not be yours, who may have been yours, or who may be yours in the future.

You remember losing your virginity on that night.

A gentle breeze, a pleasant night, your stomach craving fullness, you wander aimlessly through the streets, not just for food, but to find a place to satisfy it.

"A feast for the eyes" catches your eye; you are drawn to the elegant handwriting, push open the door, and enter that luxurious restaurant. Hungry, you don't notice the beauty of the young lady; she wears a pink suit, her voice like silver bells leading you to a spacious room, to a long table, like a banquet table in a medieval castle. At this moment, you feel like the restaurant's owner, intending to properly entertain this strange guest who keeps secreting acid, corroding both himself and you.

The still-beautiful waitress hands you a menu. You notice she's changed into a light green blouse, which you guess is simply a meticulously folded and tailored piece of fabric gently draped over her, revealing her smooth right shoulder. You vaguely see her shapely figure. Perhaps you'll ask her out after the meal, and maybe undress her sometime in the sweet evening. But now, you have no such thoughts. In fact, she's not the waitress who led you in earlier, nor the owner of the elegant handwriting on the signboard. You later discover she's just a passerby in this story, a character serving a reader.

You carefully search the menu, trying to find what you want by price, but you see no numbers. Below "Today's Special," above "Serves Soup and Black Tea," in the center of the menu, the elegant handwriting beautifully prints "She." You don't doubt whether "She" will suit your taste; after all, you're completely immune to discerning palates now. Ordering was a simple act, requiring no explanation, as you had no other choice. The waitress in the purple dress (another beautiful, newly appeared passerby—though you might wonder if she really was just a passerby) told you to wait a moment and slowly walked away with the menu.

Much time passed, but perhaps it was just your stomach's illusion. You noticed the surroundings seemed much darker, the only light coming from the candlesticks on the long table, the soft candlelight, and a white porcelain plate quietly placed between you and the candle. It was a plate you'd never seen before, a beautiful oval shape; you'd never seen such a large plate. The food had been served without your noticing, laid out horizontally on the plate. The food was "her," and you were surprised to find that "she" was actually her—a body covered in food. Looking closely at her face, you knew her so well; she was the one you saw, talked to, and said goodbye to every day.

(Please fill in "she" with someone you know well, perhaps your girlfriend, your classmate, your friend, your girlfriend's classmate, your classmate's girlfriend, your friend's girlfriend's classmate, or your dream girl, the one you know well.)

You don't believe she's here, but you don't doubt it either. She's just someone you know, only lacking beautiful clothes, just as you hoped in your dream. So you deduce that she comes from your dream, and you do too. But your stomach corrects your mistake, telling you it doesn't think so.

She lies on a white plate in the most alluring and serene posture you can imagine. You can clearly distinguish the difference between the porcelain white and her snow-white body. Her high breasts rise and fall slightly with her breath, and slices of your favorite food are arranged neatly along her curves. You can vaguely see two small pink grapes trembling on her full mounds. The real grapes, skinned and placed in the center of her fair belly, nestled in a soft, beautiful indentation, a touch of pale green contrasting against her soft white skin, stirring your hunger and desire. Her shapely thighs are where you dream of reaching, curving upwards to a vast ocean, your favorite food laid out in smooth waves, tempting you to uncover it.

Her pretty face faces you; you notice she wears no lipstick or makeup. Her lips have a faint sheen, slightly parted, with what you perceive as a faint smile. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are slightly closed, hazy as if shrouded in mist, alluring in the soft candlelight. You can't help but move closer, kissing her rosy cheek. A current seems to flow through her; she trembles slightly, and you feel as if you can hear her sweet moans. You can no longer suppress yourself (in fact, you never intended to), liberating yourself completely.

You pick up the food piece by piece with your lips, your tongue swiftly swirling it deep inside, soothing your rumbling stomach. The food slides cleanly down your esophagus, leaving no trace in your mouth. Her pale shoulders and breasts (not large, but perfectly suited to her) are laid bare before you. Your tongue slowly circles her areolas, making her rosy nipples stand even more erect. Her delicate arms embrace your head, as if wanting you to stop, yet reluctant to let go. You gently nibble at her nipples, and her body tenses instantly, her skin appearing even smoother. You shift your focus, biting off the nipple on her lower abdomen (you discover it's seedless), swallowing it whole. Your tongue scratches at the center of her navel, and she arches her back in stimulation. Your tongue, like a speedboat with sails unfurled, glides over her abdomen, upwards, across her cleavage, and finally bites hard on her smooth, tender neck, like a vampire devouring his beautiful prey. Your hands roam over her soft armpits, sliding and caressing, a moan escaping her lips (this time you're sure you heard it), mingling with your senses.

The commotion has already caused the delta's food to fall, the dark jungle appearing before your eyes, glistening dewdrops clinging to the branches, you can't tell if they're the juices of food or the splash of sweet spring water. You lean down to observe, her moist labia writhing in a way that excites you, secreting tiny, transparent beads of nectar, half-open like her real lips. You lick the sweet spring, gently caressing her source of life with your fingers, finding it wetter than you imagined. Your middle finger dips in the nectar, gently sliding along the cleft, teasing her back and forth, gradually penetrating, stopping at a certain protruding point, accelerating its ravaging, her clitoris and her vulva. She involuntarily responds to you, her body undulating with your rhythm. Her lips met yours, your tongues entwined in passionate lovemaking, while her other small mouth slowly opened and closed, yearning like a hungry fish. You quietly counted the beats, and on the third measure, you offered your long-awaited sword. The smooth crescent-shaped petals embraced the tip, and in that instant, an irrepressible feeling of pleasure surged forth (a feeling that had only ever appeared in your most wicked dreams), spreading freely. After the release, you recalled the descriptions of first nights in erotic literature and laughed knowingly.

But your still-erect little banana reminded you that this symphony was not just about that. Her snow-white thighs tightly gripped you, rubbing back and forth against you. You could clearly feel her pubic hair rustling against your body, the erotic wetness stirring your greedy desire. Your fingers slid in again, searching for everything about her. Within the pink flesh, you discovered an unknown protrusion. Curious, you traced circles on it with your fingers, playing with it wantonly. Her moans rose and fell with your rhythm, pushing you to the brink of madness and collapse. You suddenly sat up, pulled her up, and had her straddle you. Adjusting to the perfect angle, you held her tightly, uniting you completely. Her moans stimulated you, her warm opening completely enveloping you, almost making you ejaculate again. She eagerly moved her hips up and down, allowing you to penetrate deeper and deeper effortlessly. It wasn't just her softness and wetness, but the stimulation of the friction that brought you and her into indescribable pleasure.

As you were about to lose consciousness, you pushed her down, thrusting harder with your impulse. She cried out with all her might, lost in your embrace. Pleasure surged, pushing you beyond your limits, until suddenly you felt a powerful contraction, contraction after contraction, an irresistible suction. Her orgasm pulled your consciousness to its peak. Unable to bear it any longer, you released forcefully, releasing all your energy into her body, releasing it all, releasing it until the last drop remained in your reserves.

Exhausted, you lay quietly beside her, panting. Her deep breaths were still so beautiful. You gazed at her, her body, her opening, her opening rhythmically panting like yours, contracting and expanding, so intense, yet so gentle. You counted its beats, falling asleep peacefully beside her. In your dreams, you reminisced about this sweet first experience.

You awoke, outside that fantastical restaurant, your wallet empty, replaced by a receipt. You carefully fold it, put it back in your wallet, and, lost in thought, anticipate the next dinner, and another beauty you don't yet know, but are already familiar with. [ Last edited by grrr on 2009-1-15 12:48 ]

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If on a winter night

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