Morning of a New Day

This story is a collaboration between wordy_1s and chimera44. If you like what you read here, please check out our other stories.

My computer has gone to sleep. Yet I sit perfectly still, waiting. The early morning sun outside the window belies the chill of what is now, really, early fall. And the chill is also inside, seeming to hover close to the floor – and now climbing my bare legs, ever so slowly, causing the fine fair hairs that are legacy of my ancestors to stand out and quiver slightly as though they too were excited.

Because excitement fills the air.

And I wonder, no, I know it is that excitement – that anticipation – that protects her from the chill. That has allowed her to maintain that same still pose for, well, time no longer matters...only the moment matters, as only the connection will matter....when it comes.

Being male, even as I find the scene breathtaking, part of my mind continues to process what I am privileged to witness. I take in the long, rich hair cascading to her waist...and I cannot help but notice that the shirt, in some sense disappointingly, covers her lovely back and bottom. But I know it to be a lovely back and a lovely bottom so that disappointment is fleeting. From where I sit I know the angle of the mirror she is facing must be perfect for the purpose. I can see that the shirt is fully unbuttoned and peeled to either side. So that although I cannot see her breasts I know they too are fully revealed. I can see a hand on her inner thigh and know from her posture that the other hand must rest on the other thigh – in effect framing her exposed vagina. And I am fascinated by how she can hold such a pose: how she can both splay her knees to that extent yet at the same time sustain her weightlessness...in a manner no man could ever achieve, even for a moment, let alone hope to maintain over this duration of seeming infinity.

And she is gorgeous. Way beyond anything I could hope to see. Not only physically, but spiritually. Because I know she is not just examining her vagina. She is exploring her mind. Because I know, as she knows, and as I know she knows, and as she knows I know, that the very best truest sexuality emerges whole, and undiluted, from the mind.

So I wait...watching...for the 21st century version of Wordsworth's nun, 'breathless with adoration', to emerge....

Then, and only then, can I effectively take control...

I look, but do not see the image in the mirror. What was real, when first I sank to my knees, no longer matters. The sun has risen and shines through the window, warming my skin but it doesn't reach within. I had thought to see where the emptiness lay within me, but it is not skin deep, or heart deep. It cannot be reached through a kiss, or by mere penetration of any human organ. The mirror tells me lies, portraying my outside shell.

I feel his eyes on me; I know he has been watching me for a minute, an hour, an eternity. He is waiting for me to set aside my fears. I am waiting for me, too. He is so strong. His patience proves that. I raise my eyes from the mirror. I can see his reflection in the window, so very faintly. He simply watches and waits. How can I possibly deserve him?

I close my eyes on the mirror's lies. I can feel his hands on my shoulders, though I know he has not moved. Like the brush of butterfly wings, his fingers pull the shirt from my shoulders, down my back, where it pools on the floor. And still he has not moved. He sees me tremble ever so slightly, and he wants to soothe me, but he knows that I must take this step to liberation myself. He cannot free me. Though it is what he so desperately wants for me; what I so desperately want for myself.

I need his hand in mine. I need him to lead me. I need him to fill me. I need him to be my strength. My eyes fill with unshed tears. Most of all, I need him to know how much I love him. I turn my head slowly, look at him over my shoulder. One single tear breaks free and trickles down my cheek, but he knows it is not sadness from which it springs. I had searched the emptiness inside me for the answer, when all along, it was the fullness of him, so close, that I needed. My eyes, my heart, say what my words cannot. Make of me what you will, my love. My own hands brush the shirt from my shoulders.

She is lovely...a butterfly... heart fluttering only just slightly quicker than her breathing. But I don't want her frightened or even agitated. I want her strong. I want her confident. I want her challenging. So I leave my hand where she can take it, stooping, waiting -- until at long last she takes it, letting me lift her to her feet in one motion. Encouraging her to tuck one hand around my waist for a kiss.

Then, still smiling, I move her free hand to my testicles – so she can cup them in her upturned palm, explore them. And I kiss her again. Before taking hold of her hair, my eyes fix on hers, and tightening my grip, twisting ever so slightly.

So that her breath catches and she instinctively tightens her grip on my testicles.

Now it has begun.

Eyes locked on hers, challenging her to maintain this most intimate of all contacts, this scrutiny directly into the mind and the soul, I twist her hair a bit more – and a bit more – and a bit more – and with each twist her grip too tightens – and I twist again, feeling her rise on tiptoe...and there is pain for me too now...but there is knowledge as well, understanding, at least the beginning of understanding...I hope the beginning of shared understanding.

I twist again, and she flinches, a shudder passing through her entire body, and she pressures much harder in her own hand grip...and her eyes are now blurry...but they hold, and they hold, and they hold...they are unflinching. So my heart soars, because I know that at last we are coming to the place.

I ease my grip, and feel her exhale – releasing a bit of her own grip. I ease my grip some more – as does she. A third time I release pressure – and feel her feet touch down, and her hand ease still more as she again exhales.

Still our eyes are locked. She is wonderful. Unique. She is Wordsworth's nun – in the flesh. Flesh now damp from perspiration, and I know this because I break off eye contact to kiss her, gently, and lingeringly, and my hand releases her hair to slip down her back and bring her up on tiptoe again...this time for a hug.

A hug that transforms into a lift, and then she is over my shoulder – tense again, uncertain, so I wait a few seconds...and a few seconds more...until I feel her relax, feel her trust grow. Then I carry her across to the bed and lay her gently, slowly, hand cradling behind her neck, onto the bedclothes rumpled by our pleasure of the evening before.

And it smells of her, of us.

The eye contact resumes...this time with me looking down on her...her hair spread like a fan and her body ready, yet more relaxed than at any time in our relationship. I smile and gesture for her to roll over. She does. I grip her hair once more, mutely urging her up onto her knees...and then backwards. She is so graceful, so fluid...so marvellous to touch and smell and watch...

Because she is ready. And then she is positioned.

I tap my erection on her lovely firm rump, first one cheek then the other. I drop down a few inches and run my erection tip down the crease in her rump, hesitating, seeing and hearing her intake of breath. But this time I continue down, running the tip of my erection the length of her swollen, oh so wet lips...

I desperately seek for my inner stillness; I know that is what he wants, what he expects, what he demands of the person he wants me to become; the person he knows I can become. I want to turn my head, lock eyes with him, draw strength from him, but no. This is strength I must find within. So I close my eyes and I concentrate on the feel of him so close behind me. With every touch of his cock on my feverish skin, a lightning bolt flares, striking out to my nipples, my clit and that special place at my very core that only he can reach.

His cock reaches the wellhead of my fluids, pauses to marvel at the bounty, then carries the fluids down to my clit. I gasp as his tip passes so slowly over that tiny but most sensitive spot, and I am ashamed. I know he will be disappointed in me. This time is not to be about the easy path to pleasure. This time is to be about a far, far deeper connection; a connection that I crave but fear. I need him to take me beyond my fears. And I will follow him there.

His cock, having come to the end of my parted lips, taps now against my mound and the lightning storm begins again. I tremble slightly from the onslaught, but make no sound. The tip of his cock begins the path back, and I find my stillness. He passes over my clit and an electrical shock echoes endlessly through my being, but still I make no sound. The head of his cock bathes in my fluids then proceeds upward. It slides in wetness ever so slowly past my virgin hole then disappears and I want to cry out at the loss. I feel my breath and my heart quicken.

A moment, and then his damp cock is tapping against my tailbone. He knows what that does to me. I tremble hard now, barely able to maintain position. Once again, his – my – beloved cock disappears. It takes everything in my being not to sob. He pauses, gauging my success, then his lips are kissing that lowest spot on my back, his tongue is licking at the trail of my juices that his cock left. I feel my eyes roll back in my head as the sensation builds beyond intense and shoots straight to my puckered hole, making it clench over and over again.

Once again, he pulls away; not in punishment. He knows how close to the edge I am treading; how close he is leading me. He knows how helpless I become at the least touch from him. But he does not want my helplessness. I must be strong for him. With ragged breaths, I search for and find my stillness. I can feel his approval as his cock savors my juices again. I wait, invoking his patience, his strength; this beautiful man, this captain of my soul.

Returning, condom now in place, to the bewitching quivering rump I deliver a quick sharp two handed slap, one palm to each firm rounded globe. Earning a moan and wriggle as I insert my erection, without further preamble, but proceeding oh so slowly...rotating my hips to create a twist in the stroke. Withdrawing every bit as slowly, I relish the view of her tautening muscles as they seem to follow my erection to where I almost almost, almost pull out before leaning in again, every bit as slowly, with the twist...her breath now ragged and every bit of her straining to the max by the time I reach the hilt...only to withdraw again oh so slowly.

Proud of her, I pay attention consciously to how each slow twisting stroke and equally slow withdrawal effects her. I do this consciously because by the fourth withdrawal movement I am perilously close myself ...while she is breathing erratically, brokenly, and her body is glistening with perspiration.

During the fifth insertion she begins to shudder...pushing me to the where the wave is reaching the point of no return. And still I struggle, trying for one more repetition of that superb earth-shaking sequence of sensations. To no avail.

Earth-tilting spasms wrench through my body, seemingly in perfect tune with hers...and I am thinking only that she is a wonder, a miracle, a partner who will challenge my dominance and my skills and most of all my heart.