There are many wonderful moments in our love-making, of the kind that only two women can do with and for each other – some are fast and some slow, some are tender and some fierce, some are uncomplicated fun and others are elaborate fantasies, but, of them all, this is the moment that I always remember whenever I am away from my love.

I am at home, in our living room, lying on my back along the length of our sofa, with my feet up and my shoulders snugly cradled by several cushions in the right-angle formed by the back and the arm-rest. I am luxuriating in sybaritic comfort like a purring cat – and this cat is on heat, this cat is all pussy, pussy galore.

I am suitably dressed to be ready for this moment – which is to say, hardly dressed at all! My lover, sweet Claire, is on her way home from work; she has the longer commute, and often has to work even later than I do, so I’m usually the first one to get home. I’ve had a text from her, saying ‘Hi, honey, home soon and in the mood’, which is just perfect, because I sure am too … but then, I always am for her, and she knows it!

So, here I am, elegantly draped along the red leather sofa, with the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed down to about half-brightness. I have had a quick shower to wash away the feel of the working day and the over-crowded commuter trains, after which I have dabbed some of her favourite perfume in a few strategic places (oh, c’mon, you really don’t need me to spell out where, now do you?). I have chosen some new lingerie which I know that she likes, quite delicate flimsies in a cool lime green that suits my dark eyes and brunette hair: a lacy half-cup bra, a suspender belt which is holding up the co-ordinated pair of pale green traditional-style stockings, and a skimpy gauze-and-lace thong with tie-string sides, finished off with some green plastic bangles on my wrists and scarlet strap shoes with four-inch spike heels, for that essential touch of ‘I’m a slut, so take me – fuck me now!’

I hear the front door of our house open, and a bag and coat being put down in the hall, and I call out a greeting, to let her know where I am … because sometimes I wait for her in our bedroom, all demure in a baby-doll pink nightie or a white teddy, or spread-eagle in my wickedest purple-and-black satin ‘welcome to the bordello’ bustier and scarlet fishnet stockings, or sometimes on a hot summer evening I will be on the lounger on the patio which overlooks our private and enclosed rear garden, in my itty-bitty tie-string bikini, or maybe I will be waiting in the bath, all lathered up in every sense of the term. Often I wait passively for her to come to me, letting the anticipation build the heat between my legs, but sometimes I will surprise her – just a week ago, I waited hidden behind the front door into the hall, naked apart from a pair of black leather boots, a black quarter-cup bra and my favourite black strap-on dildo, and before she realised that I was there or had taken a breath, I pounced: I hustled her down onto her knees and elbows, pulled the skirt of her navy blue business-suit up to her waist, ripped a hole in the crotch of her tights, curled a finger into the gap and yanked the gusset of her panties aside, plunged the dildo into her slit, and, there and then, I took her from behind, fast and firm. She really got off on the complete unexpectedness of it, giving a startled squeal of excitement when I yanked up her skirt, and she was already wet and wide as I sank the dildo into her pussy for the first stroke. It took barely a dozen thrusts before she came with a wild scream; later, she said it was just about the best one-minute-fuck she’d ever had. However, today is about quite the opposite mood: one of delicious anticipation, a slow-building yearning, and the moment of sweet surrender to another.

I hear a merry mischievous reply to my welcome, that she will be back in a moment, called out as her heels sound on the stairs. There is quick movement above me in our bedroom, then the sounds of a toilet flushing and running water from the bathroom. I know that soon she will descend, the goddess of love in her chariot of fire, and a warm glow spreads from my stomach, igniting my pussy and making me squirm my shoulder-blades against the cushions. I feel sultry, like a harem girl, lying preened and pampered, intensely feminine and softly giving, ready to be her sovereign’s delight.

Then the door opens and my vision of happiness appears – Claire, just Claire, what more can I say?

My angel is four years younger than me, and slightly taller: although now in her later thirties, she is so trim and slender that her pointy 30C breasts really catch the eye. She may be quite reserved and briskly efficient when at work, but I have the privilege of seeing the real Claire: vivacious, mischievous, always ready to laugh, glowing with fitness and energy, with her bright shining eyes and those so-kissable lips framed by her neatly-styled light brunette hair – and, of course, as you’ll know if you’ve read what I have written about her before, her slim hips and that amazing taut jutting butt.

Claire teases me, striking a pose in the doorway. She is fully clothed, still wearing her two-piece suit of skirt and jacket – it is the beige-gold one in soft summer-weight shantung fabric, with a two-button tulip jacket that enhances her curves and emphasises her narrow waist, and a pencil skirt tapering to a little above her knees, zip-fastened at the hip and with a slashed back vent. Underneath the jacket is an Italian pintuck white shirt, tightly-tailored and unbuttoned at the throat, and her lingerie is pale yellow and decorated with little bows – I know, because I watched her slip on the bra and panties this morning! On this late summer day, she has not bothered with tights or stockings at all, and a few inches of her shapely tanned legs are on view, between the hem of her skirt and her dark brown leather boots. She knows how much I like that look – ah, sweet heaven, I have always loved getting fucked by a puss in boots! Claire wears little jewellery – a pair of neat jade-green pendant earrings, a watch on her left wrist and on her right the two slim plain gold bangles that I gave her for our anniversary last year. My God, she looks fabulous in that outfit, so chic and so hot! – my mouth is watering as I drink her in with my eyes, and I’m wet between another pair of lips as well.

Claire takes a few steps into the room, and then shrugs off her suit jacket and drops it over the back of a chair. She turns slightly to the side to do so, and my breath catches at the momentary profile of her figure and the slight shifting of her breasts as she straightens again – all the more tantalising for their containment in her bra and white shirt. She comes closer, almost within arms’ reach, and looks down at me, a loving smile about her lips and warm desire in her eyes, a faint flush of arousal highlighting the smooth skin and perfect curves of her cheeks.

My angel leans down towards me, her breasts swinging forward smoothly inside her shirt as she does so, and through where it hangs unbuttoned and open at her throat, I am given a glimpse of the promised land – a view down her cleavage, a sight of her sweet mounds encased in the cups of her bra. My lips part in an almost silent moan of desire, and her eyes sparkle knowingly at the effect her posture is having on me. This excites her in turn, and her nipples are now jutting quite prominently through the thin fabric of her bra – dear girl, she knows how much I love to unclasp and remove that garment, as I will do later, when I will smother her soft curves with kisses and nibble on her stiff tits with my teeth, so delicately that it tantalises with that hint of force and passion just barely restrained.

With an effort, I raise my gaze from her cleavage to look her in the eyes, and I am thrilled by the warmth of her regard, the interlacing of love and sheer downright lust. It turns me on even more: the joy and release, the security and the stimulation, of knowing myself to be the object of my love’s desire – that she wants to have me, to take me, and – aaahhh! – I do so want to be taken!

This is the moment – THIS, this is just the perfect moment! If Chanel or Dior could distil the pure essence of sexual anticipation and bottle it, then when you first broke the seal, when the first hint of that erogenous aroma escaped into the air – this is what it would be, this is how it would taste and smell, sending all of your senses into a dizzying whirl of excitement. I am consumed with that passive but pulsating desire that can only be felt by a woman with a lover who she wants with intensity and trusts without reservation.

I savour like ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, these sweet eternal seconds of lingering on the cusp, of delicious anticipation and simmering arousal – both longing for and yet postponing that sure and certain moment of surrender, the conceding of oneself that is actually the consuming of the other, the coming together in every sense of that phrase, body and soul.

Claire’s fingertips gently brush my knee, and then so softly and so slowly – oh, so slowly! they trace along my upper thigh, a delicate caress that has an electrifying effect upon me, sending shimmering tingles through my body, and I give a soft gasp of entreaty. She places one knee on the sofa, between my parted legs, and I see with intense clarity her teeth nibble just briefly on her lower lip and the flare of her nostrils, as she savours the heady thrill of anticipation and the sense almost of vertigo of the pivotal moment – just like the skier at the top of the piste, before she digs in, hunches low, and sweeps with blinding speed and slashing curves down the pure crisp glistening slope.

And then … ah! the minx, the little minx!

She stops … no! oh, no! … she pauses, enjoying my quivering expectation, my raging flame of desire, as my ass squirms on the suddenly irritating sweaty and sticky leather, as my knees swing wider apart in a silent plea for her conquering invasion, as my mouth hangs open with a whimper, my tongue flicking along its lips, making them nearly as wet as my lower lips, with my pussy so parted and trembling.

Take me! Take me, queen of my heart, sweet angel of desire, oh! … take me NOW!

She gives a sudden impish grin, transforming her instantly – in a way that I love so much – from the sophisticated responsible executive in her mid-30s into the gamine, reckless, fun-loving, free-spirited, vivacious girl that she must have been as a teenager.

Claire reaches out languidly with her right hand, forefinger extended, and slowly runs her fingernail just once up my slit from its base to its top – oooh! so gently, barely making any contact with my flesh. Am I feeling her touch? Or do I desire it so intensely that I imagine it, and her finger is tracing a line through the air instead?

No, no – it’s real! Every nerve-ending that I have is hyper-tuned for this moment – as … aaaahhh!! … as … mmmmnn … oh, oh! … AAHH, OHMIGOD!

Her teasing fingertip has found my clitoris, and on this it rests, with the least, the barest, the slightest, the lightest touch …

AAAAAHHH!! AHH, FUCK ME – YES, FUCKMEEEE!!

I cry out brokenly as I shudder in orgasm, the annihilation of all reason exploding in my pussy, my back arching up and away from the sofa beneath me, and my head flung back into the cushions behind. The effect thrusts my breasts forward at my lover, jiggling wildly, and my whole body spasms in climax, shaking with the earthquake that has burst the dam and flooded my pussy with juices, as I spread my sweat-sheened thighs as wide open as possible, and tremble with the occasional aftershocks of my passion.

Oh, Claire! … bliss, bliss, bliss … my darling, my angel, thank you … mmm!!

Now I am sprawled in utter abandon, arms flung wide, legs lolling far apart, breasts for the seizing and a wet open pussy now so ready for the taking, gasping and twitching like a landed fish … and, Claire, you have caught me, I am hooked on your line, for ever and ever.

If you enjoyed reading this, you may like my fictional stories as well – they are all 100% lesbian … to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story. There are also two more true stories about Claire and myself, called ‘What I Did On My Holidays’ and ‘What Turns Me On’.