Standing in front of the mirror, Jason opened his robe. His recent weight gain had rounded his stomach, just enough to sag a little on his hip bones. He ran one of his hands through his chest hair, and across his stomach, patting it lightly. Shrugging off the robe, he turned in profile and flexed his buttocks. He admired their shape and strong dimples. Lightly caressing them, his hands rounded his thighs and reached the front, stopping just short of touching his thick penis that was already turning hard.
He looked down at his dangling member, grateful for its fullness and length. Even soft he was impressively sized. Even more impressive was April and how easily and readily she accommodated him. He let one hand graze his balls, squeezing lightly while the other wrapped around his cock (April's husky voice in his head, she says it better) and tugged lightly, his fingers lingering over the head, one digit stroking that sweet spot over and over, the pleasure of it making him flex forward, almost erect now, longer and thicker and heavier and so very hard, starting to throb and ache in that too-wonderful for words way.
He stopped. Dropping his hands to his sides, he watched his cock spasm on its own, rising, pointing at is twin in the mirror, pointing back at him. The words 'suck' and 'milk' kept rolling through his brain, obsessively. April with her soft little hands, caressing him, over and over, drawing him out, inside her, deeper, in that special way of hers; the only way she ever does, the only thing she wants from him.
Calm down. Not yet. She isn't home yet. Calm down.
Picking up his robe, he covers himself again, giving himself a good shake all over, snapping out of it, and reminding himself to be patient.
Downstairs he puts on her music. Not the cool jazz he prefers, but the low trance pulses, the faint, rhythmic moans of a man and woman. A single, male voice on top of theirs, deep, monotone, guiding them,
come on, come on, come on,
teasing and droning.
He falls into the cozy chair, the high back cradling his neck, his arms spilling over the high rests. He stretches and spreads his legs wide. He can hear her walking up the steps and her hand on the door. She won't say anything when she comes in. She'll take off her coat, put down her purse and turn down the lights. April is always the same.
She never explains herself to him. From the moment they met, he knew this is how it would be. Part of him aches for more, but he is never sure what more is: an open relationship, a life together, something other than playing the object, the toy: her favorite plaything? She tells him not to think about it too much. Thinking makes him want and the wanting makes him something close to angry. She gives, she takes; it's all the same to her.
His eyes are closed, tense when he feels her hand caress his shoulders. She reaches over him, her hands disappearing into the robe, running over his chest, scratching lightly through the soft hairs. He feels himself sink a little. He can feel her warm sweet breath on his neck, over his ear. This is as close to conversation as they ever get. She leans over him further, her hands going lower, around his belly, just barely touching the tops of his thighs. She caresses him so delicately, like touching water. His skin ripples under her fingers. She could do anything to him. She strokes his lower belly. She is watching closely, how his body reacts to her, knowing how it wants her. He is nothing but a body, just a plate of skin for her to feed off of. He tenses again, agitated, and she stops, her hands over his chest, just over his heart. She does this to calm him. When she feels his heart rate slow, she knows. The only throb now is between his legs. She pulls away from him and walks around the chair. He opens his eyes to watch her, watching him.
She is so small, barely five feet. When he stands next to her, the top of her head barely reaches his chest. He enjoys those moments, when he can take her head in his hands and hold it to his belly, feeling her hot breath there, waiting for her to go lower still, hotter still.
She is standing between his long, parted legs. The robe is just long enough to cover half his muscular thighs. The belt ties hang loosely in front. She bends a little and reaches for it, her eyes never leaving his. He feels drowsy when she does this, drowsy and lazy and too patient for the pleasure she is going to give him. The music is throbbing in his eyes and over his skin. The moans are so faraway but so close, like putting your ear to a wall. She tugs on the belt and pulls the knot free. She places both hands on his knees. She kneels.
He watches her with eyes growing heavy as she draws his robe apart, revealing his thick, hairy frame; revealing his heavy, waiting cock. She relaxes back on her ankles a little, her hands caressing over his thighs, inside and out, around his hips and his flexing buttocks. She squeezes them, hard and his hips slip forward a little. He wants to thrust, but he knows better. Not yet. She is looking at him now, at his cock. This is why she is here, why she always comes. Her hands stroke his inner thighs, moving up, inward, almost touching him, but no, she's caressing the hair on his belly and her face is so close now, he can feel her breath on him.
