I read Neruda to her in Spanish and her panties fell off.  Which was only slightly uncomfortable because we were sitting in Union Square Park just as the sun was going down. When I got to the end, her hand was in my jeans, and I was whispering the lines in her ear.

“Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.”  The words were slow and deliberate, and she squeezed my cock so hard I almost started over again at the beginning.

I kissed her as people walked by, hopefully unaware of what was going on beneath the jacket on my lap, and her mouth was wet.  Her tongue was warm, her lips soft, and it was a kiss that made me wish I wrote my own poetry.

Her hand moved faster as our kiss grew slower, and she growled into my ear as she slowly began to pull an orgasm out of my body starting at my toes. She drew it up through my calves, over my knees and into my thighs.  I started saying the last line over and over again as she worked it up to my stomach, around my navel, and positioned it right at the base of my cock.

She grabbed my head and thrust her tongue so deeply inside me I nearly choked. As she fucked my mouth, she called down my release those last inches until I came hard enough to scare the pigeons.  Without so much as a pause, she licked her fingers clean before zipping up my jeans and slouching down on the bench.

I stared at her, wondering what she’d look like naked in my bed.

“So, yeah,” I said.  “About that last line…”

“Darling,” she said, taking my chin in her hand, “thanks for the offer, but someone did that to my cherry tree a very long time ago.”