On their tenth or perhaps eleventh date, he took her to the Capitol lawn to watch the fireworks.
They spread out a blanket among thousands of others; enjoyed their picnic and their wine, and waited for the sky to darken. As it got cooler, they sat close together, enjoying the warmth and touch.
When the first rocket exploded, they clapped along with everyone, and then joined in chorus after chorus of appreciative “Oooh” and “Aaah.” The Capitol made a beautiful foreground for the display, and one could almost forget the steady assault on liberty, rights, and dignity perpetrated beneath its golden dome on every day but this one.
As they walked slowly through dense crowds back to his car, she found a bolder, more explicit voice than she had hitherto.
“People liken orgasms to fireworks,” she said, blushing unseen in the darkness. “For me it’s more like being near a cozy fire — warm and comfortable, not so dramatic or explosive.”
He was silent for a few steps. She had grown used to his quiet thoughtfulness, and no longer thought him distant for it.
“Perhaps,” he said, “You should come home with me tonight.” He squeezed her hand a little harder. It was a decision, not a question, and she felt her panties grow instantly damp.
Later, it was clear to her. It had been like a blue chrysanthemum burst — Oooooh! — turning suddenly into a gold one bursting so hard that it filled the sky from edge to edge — Aaaaaah! — and then at the end, each of a hundred long golden streamers had flared into an explosion — Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! — so bright it almost hurt to look at, the sky a halo of brilliance and noise, overwhelming and awesome.
When her breathing was normal and her body stopped shaking, she said, “I want to do something for you I’ve never done.”
Later, she thought it was like the smell of gunpowder that hung over the Capitol lawn: spicy and bitter, lingering, adult, not-quite-pleasant but oh, so desirable.
With shining strands stretching between her lips, she said, “Your cum tastes like fireworks.”
— Frenulum
