The Wait Is Over 3

With the sound of the bedroom door softly closing, she knows the wait is over. Laying exposed, motionless, for what has seemed like eternity. Her beauty on display, face down on a single sheet and visible by only a dull flicker of light in the otherwise darkened room. The aroma from the same source, not the vanilla or floral highlights of some blissful seaside collection she would have chosen, but rather a leatheresque, manly scent as instructed. A reminder of who was ultimately in control.

Within moments, the first touch. Light nails tracing patterns down her back, parting through the volumes of beautiful strawberry blonde curls that roll across her shoulders. With an occasional upward combing of her hair with his fingers, she feels her breath deepen. There is an intensity that has filled the room with just that mere touch. The same fingers working slowly upward through the waves of locks gently pressing against her scalp will soon be replaced with a more forceful, demanding gesture of need. There it is. A firm, yet loving, handful of hair taken. She feels the sensuous pull, backward, release, backward, release, backward yet again but this time no release as she feels her chin rising up from its place of rest, following his lead, her body rises as well until slowly she is brought to her hands and knees. A position taken so many times before. Sometimes anxiously. Sometimes more reluctantly. Always with a realization, however, of what is to come. She feels the gentle realease of the grip in her hair, allowing the soft flows to again fall onto her shoulders and down along her neckline, providing a limited shield to her now exposed breasts as she awaits further touch in her new found position.

The quiet footsteps now followed by his shadowy presence move from her side to directly in front of her. The sensory highlights to come she knows well. The sounds. The smells. The tastes. She awaits them all with a bit of excitement. But she does not wait long as the rustling of a belt begins, followed by the slow, tooth by tooth unlocking of a zipper, leading to a scrunching crash of clothes to the floor before her. The scent of his cologne slowly takes reign of her nostrils, highlighted by the musky, manly scent no doubt sweetened by a precursor to his excitement, slowly building. As further rustling results in his briefs now joining the remainder of the clothes at his feet, she feels his presence and takes in a deeper draw of the scents before her. Her chest now clearly moving with excitedly deeper breaths as she feels it. In the darkness, in the shadows, knowing the proximity to his sex, the barrier between them is broken as contact is made with her lips.

Again his hand embarks upon weaving, lacing his fingers feaverishly through her hair, encouraging her to take him into her mouth, drawing in his excitement. She does so, gladly, as if rewarded. As her tongue encircles him with almost every pressured pull his lust quickly builds, his balls become more tense with each draw up and down his shaft, an ache comes over him, and a sexual desire for release is apparent to both of them. His fingers still weaving and gripping pulling her back and forth orchestrating his own delight and pleasure. Then, with only the light moans and sudden tenseness as warning, his excitement is released, with band after band of his warm, salty treat offered as if for a job well done. It is drawn, almost extracted in a craving-like manner, pull after pull creating an intense, rewarding tenderness. As he settles from his high, the last of his offering gently dribbles from her lower lip as her breaths also slowly settle. He offers one final caress, a pet of her hair and head. The scent of a kind, loving, yet highly erotic act is all that is left. She lowers herself back to the single sheet below her, now dampened with the sweat of her efforts.

Silence falls. No movement. No touch. Instead, a sensory overload afforded only by the mind that accompanies the wait, yes, once more, the wait.

Again, the sounds of rustling. Again, soft footsteps. The click, this time not of the door, but the nightstand drawer. A sound familiar. And, with that confirmation of what is to come, her womanly excitement builds. A trembling in her stomach, a longing for pleasure. Her natural juices now steadily flow from anticipation until, yes, yes, there is the moment she awaits. Feeling her lover make that first, so sought after contact with that meticulously shaped toy, her favorite, but moreso when masterfully used by a partner and not as her own source of satisfaction. She slightly spreads her legs in welcoming wait.

Now with access to her innermost sanctuary of desire, passing through her moistened, glistening lips, the gently vibrating tool presses inward. Its size, curves, and softness all carefully crafted with the ingenuity of pulse, warmth... designed for the soul purpose of transporting its recipient to levels of shear ecstasy.

With each new angle, new thrust, gentle retraction and carefully and slowly probed new found depths, she shudders, gently shakes, and moves to accept the changing joys each brings. Her breathing, paused with each surprise, softly regained with the harmony of temptuous moans. He has found what she has searched for, his skill has once more brought her to that place upon a mountain, an erotic climax again, again, and again, from which she screams and thrashes, as savouring each moment of descent. With one last withdraw, ever so slowly, her midsection again lowers to the damp sheets. Her chest now rises and falls with less purpose, not as when in the throws of passion, but now, in a calmness fitting of her angelic beauty. She feels his hand, gently rub then pat the small of her back. His signature touch of love, of gratitude, and sadly, of goodbye.

Again, footsteps. Again, the click of the door. Alone once more, she drifts to sleep.