Wicked Bliss


It was a November night in 1967. A Monday and the first ever event at a venue that would later wear the name of a certain someone. I’d spent that entire Sunday sewing my new dress. It was a pale yellow with small white buttons up the front, sleeveless with folds in the shirt that just gave me fits getting them to all align just so. My Beloved, as always, was devastatingly handsome as he took to the ring. I must confess that I didn’t watch his match. He wrestled that man who always upset me because their matches were so brutal. Don’t even think about using the f— (fake not fuck) around those two.

I’d spent most of the evening sipping on a doctored up Sprite so I might have been slightly pickled by the time my gorgeous warrior finished his battle. Afterwards we sneaked off to a quiet spot, just the two of us. Sometimes I really hated having to share him with the rest of the world. I wanted him to be mine, mine, mine.

He took a taste of my drink and admonished me for getting tipsy while he had to work. I think he was really more upset that I’d gone with something a little more girly than his usual bourbon. I laughed and kissed him quiet, savoring the delicious gin fresh off his tongue. I shivered in the chilly night air and asked him to hold me tight. He said he needed to shower first. He was all sweaty from his match and still in his trunks. I didn’t care. I fell into his arms, forcing him to catch me.

It was so absolutely lovely, the feel of his warm muscles as he pressed me back against the wall. He smelled so good, all manly and tough. Forget about being ladylike. I dropped my purse, and by now almost empty cup, to wrap my arms around him. I traced a damn trail of sweat down his back, my fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his trunks.

In that moment I wished I could melt my body into his so as to be permanently one. I wanted to sink inside his skin, wrap myself around his heart and float through his blood.

“Dammit, Dess,” he said, “I want you right here and now.”

I would have gladly given myself to him right there in the middle of the ring in front of a building full of screaming fans. But, alas cooler heads prevailed and we didn’t get naughty until we were out in his car.

I’ll never forget his beautiful smile after we’d made love under the stars. There’s just something intensely erotic about fucking in a convertible with the top down. We drove home that night with the wind whipping through my hair. I was snuggled up beside him wrapped under a soft fleece blanket, his arm around me and my hand on his thigh. I fell asleep counting the miles until we made it back to my bed.

Ooh, what a night…


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