The Waiting

I am laying on the patio bench in the hot afternoon sun; white panties on the floor at my feet. My skimpy sundress, not much more than a light cotton top really, is haphazardly thrown over the back of the bench.

This is how I feel on the beach ... languid and melty, the Sun's rays beating down on me. Enveloping me. Fucking me. Tentacles of sun caressing me, invading me in every way imaginable. Being fucked by a ray of sun. The heat and salty taste of sweat on my lips. My back arches as if reaching up to a lover. My lover the Sun God.

I turn my head slightly and smile. There is my afternoon laid out in still life form. Cucumbers deep, dark green, like a dank forest floor; the Sun God's rays making a sheen in the glare. I look at them longingly, wishing they were bigger. The store only had miniature ones. Small like a spent lover's penis. becoming limp in the sun, they look like they are in the process of shriveling and I think, "They'd be better cut into slices and pickled."

Deeply red strawberries; I imagine teasing my nipples with the tip of one or dipping into the juices of my cunt and licking it clean; fucking myself with the largest strawberry and then eating it. I blush at my own lust.

My eyes wander to the glass and a smile creeps across my face. Dalton, my upstairs neighbor had given me the ice cube trays molded into long thin rows like mini cornbread sticks ... I smile wider remembering the glee in his proclamation, "Ice cubes tray, to make ice for water bottles!!" He seems like an innocent sort.

I pick up the glass knowing they are already starting to melt and choose one randomly. The tray had 10 depressions but 2 had broken and I'd let the dogs eat them. Running the coldness over my nipple and watching my skin start to pucker I feel a tingly happiness. My Sun God and I, alone in the heavy air.

Slowly, I tease the ice across both nipples letting a long drip puddle between my breasts, dragging it down my flattened stomach to my belly. I press down deep in the hole of my bellybutton, filling it with liquid and then encourage the tiny stream out, down, and then cascading over my mound. A waterfall into my slit.

I make a mental note to shave myself before Friday and laugh softly with delight about my plans to visit friends that I know will use my body and let me use theirs for more pleasures than I've had in months.

I lay watching the ice puddle, thinking about the movers and this endless game of waiting. I more than half wish they've lost it all;

"If I'm going to start my life over," I think, "I might as well be complete about it."

I would have very few regrets. My journals. My favorite print samples. A few photos. I suddenly wish that my "toy box" had traveled with me. That brand new crop, unused, waiting for her creamy skin; the new flogger, soft and supple ... replaceable, but I'd held them in my hand ... hefted them, practiced with them.

The ice has melted between my fingers and I reach for another one, parting the slick skin between my thighs with coldness that turns to liquid fire, meeting the wet juices already running down the crack of my ass.

I squirm, wanting the sun to fuck me harder. Wanting the ice to fill me. Wanting Him. Wanting Him to want me. Wanting. Wanting. Wanting. It's all that filled me lately. Need.

The first small rod slips in almost accidentally and I quickly reach for a second, letting it follow. Before I realize it I've filled my cunt with seven of them ... all of them ... all but the one I had slipped into my ass. I lay back feeling full but not complete and let my lover the sun envelop me again.

There is a faint ache in my lower belly and I think about Ross. Ross, away in a timezone so off of mine that it's still morning where he is. I imagine him standing over me, looking at me and saying "such a slut" with that disdainful tone that made my stomach churn. I long for his direction, the heaviness of his hands; the evil of his twisted mind. I long to obey him ... but like the winds, our relationship changes and I never know when or if there "next time" I think about texting him to ask permission, but for what? Instead, send one to James:

"laying naked on patio with 2 cucumbers, 3 strawberries and a glass of Ice... "

I take a blown-out photo of my knee and attach it, knowing that's not the picture he's hoping for. A grin spreading on my face knowing that he will briefly harden when he opens it. And feel the same consternation of my teasing that he has for 2 decades.

I think of her. The pixie, petite; like something you could crush in your hand. Delicate, but with so much strength and determination. And so much passion. So ALIVE. My stomach churns with the thought of her. Her bound tightly to the bed before me. Legs spread. James at her side... waiting to see what I will do next with his wife. I smile wickedly to myself hearing his voice almost curiously crushed from the last time.

"she made sounds for you that I've never heard come out of her mouth."

I wonder if I can make her make those sounds again and grin, knowing it's rhetorical. My hands wander aimlessly over my warm body and each small shift of my torso brings ice water cascading in a rivulet out of my cunt and down the crack of my ass to pool under me and drip through the slats of the bench. I think about the time I was instructed to pee in the shower .. the hot running down my legs ... and I imagine my cunt to be a faucet. Hot then cold. On. Off. On. Off ...

The dull ache is gone. Now I try to hold the water inside and shift to a new position; one leg thrown over the back of the bench. Opening my thighs even wider to my lover, the Sun. I let my hands dance over my moist belly and tease my nipples then cup a hand over my shaggy mound.

The neighbor's screen door opens and i flatten against the bench. Knowing she can't see over the low wall but careful just the same. As she goes back in and slides the door shut my fingers creep into my sticky, coldness only to find my nether lips on fire. Flame heat and icy cold, mixing ... just like I'd imagined. My fingers tease as if they were separate from my brain and moan low as I make myself cum. Quickly and frantically. ... guiltily ... as if I was not supposed to allow myself the pleasure so soon. Knowing for a fact I am not ... or rather was not.

Just a few months ago that act would have brought a punishment. I think sadly, how no one cares how soon I cum anymore and determinedly blink back tears I refuse to let fall. I will NOT cry over him today. I say that every day. I've said it every day since May. So hard to comprehend his absence after two years of having him know my every move, my every need, my every longing and desire. After letting him into the darkest most private places of my heart and soul. Two years suddenly gone. I snap my fingers, brushing my hardening clit, and flinch ... I drag myself back to reality. I can't go there. Not today. I can't visit the empty aching black hole left behind. I force myself back to to my Sun Lover.

Immediate gratification is seldom rewarding, but how can I resist after my Sun Lover has fucked me ... I lay back for a bit and slip my dress back on, not knowing why. The ice water begins to slip out of my ass and another gush of my molten juices and water flows from me. I look at the strawberries and pick one up, eating it ravenously. The other 2 quickly follow and I chastise myself again about being greedy, about immediate gratification.

"Fuck it." I think

Hell I deserve it. I've been here waiting for the movers to arrive for 11 days and most of that time has been spent anxious and busy doing ... I don't know what. Keeping busy is the key. The months before this one had been so very hard. So many endings. Leaving my marriage. My home. My city. A discarded lover; And finally, saying goodbye to Him . Elllllliottt ... I say it in my head like ET ... what was to have been my future.STOP. Don't go there ... It's still too open and raw, scabbing over slowly, too slowly. I think how welts and crop scars heal so fast while ones from a lover's rejection never do. Again I drag myself back to reality, pinching my inner thigh, hard.

My next thought is predictable; it is never far away ... I caress my red inner thigh and let his name roll around in my mind ... Levon, Leo, my lion. I whisper it out loud and my heart swells to accommodate even more pain. A lump in my throat threatening to choke me. My gut filling with the crushing pain and anger that always comes.

"Fucking bastard," I think to myself "Fucking coward, piece of shit."

A crush of my soul that will never heal. My poet, my musician, my - never was never will be - best-friend-lover. I will him back, if only for a moment. One moment to be able to dispel all my violent anger, my passion; and then to, one last time, lingeringly kiss him goodbye. His muse. His 'dixie dear'. His baby blue.

"Wouldn't matter," I hear the words in my head like a mantra, "He was such a selfish bastard.He would have put that fucking gun in his mouth anyway."

As much as he loved me, loved Daisy, and loved music he loved his own needs more; sellfishness was another medal he wore. Levon. Decorated soldier. Decorated bastard. They were equal, they were the same thing. Always about what he needed and wanted ... usually me, my attention, my thoughts, my desire of him, I teased and ridiculed to let him know where he stood. And he took it all and handed it all back to me, ten-fold. It's what drew me to him. That and his passion for music.

Hell, let's call a spade a spade .... It's what drew me to them all. I am a moth to their flame of selfishness.

My downfall. Strong willed men unrepentant about it. A phrase I've heard from every lover's lips since the beginning of time: "It IS all about ME you know." It was the ones who made ME what they wanted that were dangerous. It made me want them even more. Their need was my need.

The pinch this time brings a red welt almost instantly. My legs are still spread one draped over the back and one over the end-arm. The rising welt. My dress is well above my waist, covering only the porcelain white stripe of skin and my nipples.

I realize who I've been writing this for and I grin. I Imagine writing in the line, "While my fingers played between my hot, wet lips, my mind wandered to Him. Only a few miles away but light years out of reach."

I know instantly the small and select group of men I could send it to who would all assume it was written about them, and stifle a giggle, knowing I'll send it to each of them. Each of them minus one.

The one I met on-line last time. The one from my past. The one who knew what 'non-vanilla' was and was shocked I did too. And Him.

I sigh. That one defies categorization; as unlikely a match as I could imagine. Yet we clicked. I feel it with a certainty I rarely feel; oh how we clicked. Mentally, intellectually our interests, emotions, I wanted him. I wanted to consume him. I wanted him to consume me. I felt his hands on me though he'd never touched me. I wanted to learn from him and I knew that even an eternity would not give me all the time I'd need to learn all he could teach me. Right then I knew ...

He would never be. We would never be ... he was another vestige of my past. As much as my mind and body longed to be his, to know his thoughts and his body intimately, I realized fully just how unlikely that was. With an actual shake of my head I turn to the present. The thought had snapped me into reality, out of the languid haze of my Sun lover and Ice melt. And I pinched myself in punishment for always wanting what I cannot not have. For falling back onto an old, bad habit ...

well hell. I briefly wondered if he and I might ever fuck anyway.

I know it would never be that. He'd never just 'fuck' ... he's not that type. He might have been at some point in his life, but that was past him. It's something I feel sure about. I always fall the hardest for the ones least obtainable. The ones most sure of their values. The ones who stick to their guns. It drives me batty. Why can't it ever just be easy?

I hear my friend April, in my head ... "HE's the type you ALWAYS want to fuck and then you go and fall in love with, sheesh." my doppleganger, how could I argue with her. But still ... I imagine his hands on me. And the thought I'd had so many times when I was with him, the very specific words float up:

"He's a natural Dom; I wonder if he knows."

A simple fact. And I DO wonder if he knows ... what he knows of that world. Even if he knew nothing. Even if he didn't care to learn about it, I know how natural it would be to sit at his feet and say, 'Yes Sir'. Not role play or 'scanning' it would be ... I struggle for the word. Natural. No. It would be instinctive. My mind races; what He is, is a cowboy. That's how I often think of him -- not that he is even remotely "cowboy-ish." It is the one song that always reminds me of him. Always has. I gasp softly as Willie and Waylon sing it; a lullaby in my ear. Languid, twangy voices, "Mammas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys ... they'll never stay home and they're always alone, even with someone they love" the lyrics were so very Him. He'd probably appreciate that ... maybe.

i pick up a cucumber and take a bite out of the small veggie tasting the watery taste and full flavor of it. Such a luxury on the 'other' coast, but so ordinary here ... food with flavor. Looking down at the only thing left of my still life I pick up the last cucumber and slip it easily into my hot, wet cunt; the bigger of the two, it fills me. Makes me feel whole.

In an almost businesslike manner, I stand, leaving it there for now. A reminder ... a reminder of my lover the Sun. With flushed cheeks, I stand, put my panties on, straighten my dress, and go in to walk the dogs. Writing the title in my head. "The Waiting ..." thinking it WAS the hardest part ...

The End