And Then...

Well, after I leave and get halfway to the store, I discover that I've left my wallet behind; so back I drive to fetch it, and get my dark glasses while I'm at it.

I shout Hello when I walk in.

From the shower, down the hall and through the bedroom you shout Hello?

I can barely hear you over the sound of fast running water. I say I forgot my wallet!

You stick you head out of the shower and say you're in the shower. This, I know.

I make my way through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. I stand in the middle of our love-making litter. The butterscotch air is warm with the smell of Cambodie incense and the steam-damp from the shower. The pillows on the floor soak with the delicious, lusty aroma of your body, and my body. Everywhere, our clothing; shirts and blouses and shorts, socks and shoes, jock strap and thong, black satin corset, fire- engine-red stockings, long strings of pearls and body jewelry, Indian scarves, feathered ball-masks, wine bottle and Manhattan glasses, a box of chocolates (and a litter of paper), and bottles of spiced massage oil.

Through the bathroom door I ask, in my deepest and clearest voice, if you would like me to scrub your back? The water stops, and I hear the rustling and flapping of towels; the sound of wet feet on dry tile.

You speak as clearly as you can through the steamy haze, teasing- kittenish. You say Please wash my back! That would be wonderful. Please!

The toilet flushes.

The water runs again. The errands can wait; plenty of time. I say Nothing would please me more than to wash your back. I whip off my shirt, kick off my shoes, and shuck out of my cargo shorts. I am naked in an ace with half a hard-on, walk straight through the bathroom to the shower, and stand next to you. The water is very hot, but that ain't no never mind.

You, of course, are as naked as the day you were born, and dripping wet from top to bottom; your hair hangs down in strings as the water pours over your head; your eyes, your mouth, your whole face smiles; your voluptuous breasts, your tight and hard erect nipples (itchy and wrinkly), cascade with water. It pours down your shoulders and arms, through your cleavage, your tummy. Hot water pours, dripping, through the sparkling fluff of bush hair which rises between you legs; down to your feet (which I admit I dearly love to kiss; licking).

You are very glad to see me, smile big, and look down at my half-hard cock. I know for a fact you cannot wait to get your hands on it.

I am always glad to see you naked and obviously excited; you have that fresh-fucked half-dreamy gleam in you eyes; ah, me.

Absolutely the minute we are within reach, we embrace--feet and legs, thighs, pussy and half-hard cock, stomachs, chest and hair, nipples and breasts, lips and faces, arms and hands and fingers. Hot water pours down over us as we share a long moment of lips and tongues, nips and giggles, polite and sloppy, plush and lustful and horny; we kiss and cop feels as if we hadn't seen each other for ever.

I slip and slide my hands over as much of your body as I can reach; I know you love for me to do this; face and hair and neck and chest and breasts (caressing the cozy, melting warmth of your breasts, your nipples and cleavage), belly button, bushy-soggy pussy hair, the fleshy cheeks of your ass, that voluptuous crease, and the puckered-in little hole the Chinese call the "rosebud." You shiver in that lusty, horny way that everybody in the room knows will end with our fucking. Some days there is no turning back; yes, yes, the car-chores can surely wait.

Oh yes, darling lass, we'll be fucking up a storm (and that right soon!), but not just yet. First things first; suds and scrubs.

You reach around and take up the soap and the wash cloth (already dripping with lather), but--of course--the soap slips from your hand.

You say It's so slippery! You giggle with cheer, and bend over to pick it up. What is it that chefs say, Presentation is everything? The steaming hot water showers over your back, dripping from your dangling breasts and nipples, and down your legs. As you chase the soap between your feet, I step back to admire your arse and your beautiful pussy (tangle of sopping- wet hair and silhouette of lips) between your legs.

I, of course, cannot resist the invitation, and take my cock by root, step directly behind you and slip it between your legs. Half-hard as it is, the knob and shaft slides through the lips of your pussy (like a hotdog in a bun), and caresses that most velvet-smooth, honey-warm, ticklish and tasty intimate part of you. And that slickery soft texture of mellow pussy is not of piping-hot soap and water, but the hot, tasty crème of self-induced orgasm; what the French call petit jus. I am sorry I missed it; you are so beautiful when you masturbate.

With my cock nestled between you legs, you discreetly lift a heel just a touch. Enough to let my cock slide through; like a smooth, well-greased bolt sliding home. You keep chasing the soap with one hand, and with the other you reach between your legs and push the shaft of my stiffening cock completely against you. Hot, soft hand and fingers; half-hard cock; tasty- hot, fragrant pussy. A most intimate embrace.

You say I love the feel of your cock there. Your whole cock against all of my pussy.

Yes, indeed, I say to myself. Ah, me.

Then it's back to business. I say Fucking in a minute, lover. First the suds and scrub! And as if my magic the soap and wash cloth appear out of nowhere. You step to the side, facing the tile, and my cock, red and hard from hairs to head twitches in air. I lather up the wash cloth, and commence. Slickery and sloppy, lathery with bubbly froth. I soap your neck and back, your back, your back and buttocks; lathering, lathering; a surfeit of strong-scented lather everywhere; it runs down my arm; runs down my belly and cock. I reach around and lather your stomach and breasts, delicately scrubbing (but in earnest) your nipples; this, I know, always makes your creamy between the thighs.

I want you to want me. Said another way, I want you to desire me with that completely unashamed and eager, inviting and lustful joy of fucking. Joy, after all, is your name. Joy, joie; indeed!

Your deepest, langoury voice hums in your throat; it is as if you have no human words for the melting pleasure I am giving you; simply the deepest expression of breathe. This makes my cock even harder, and it twitches more; my groin aches for fucking (the ache like a goddamned drug).

Yes, I want you to want me fucking you--but not just yet!

You look down and around, blowing my cock a kiss, and exclaim your delight--my cock just about as hard as hard can be.

And me? I cannot stop soaping and sudsing and working the lathery cloth up and down and around, and around your body; it is as if I am drunk on the tickly sensation of cloth and lather on skin (mine and yours); drunk on your wiggles and shivers and breathy, whispery sighs; drunk on the feel of drippy lather and hot, hot water on my cock, your hands and fingers on my cock; drunk at the sight of you cupping your breasts and lifting them, full in your hands, into the hot, hard stream of water; flipping the nipples with your thumbs; shaking your head, standing on tiptoe (tightens the cheeks of your arse). I move my hand and soapy cloth between your legs.

You say Soap there. Do my pussy..., oh, goodness gracious...!

A long, long moment do I soap between you legs. Bye and bye, you are squeaky clean from your belly button to the small of your back. If there's one thing I know how to do, Joy, it is scrub your back top to bottom.

It is time for fucking. You step out of the shower to towel down, and dry your hair; singing. I shower and laugh. You waltz into the bedroom. I step out of the shower, dry myself, and shave. When I come into the room, you are stretched across the bed on your side among the pillows. One leg drawn up, luxuriating in the still-damp, warm sensation of pleasant exhaustion. (We were fucking at 4:00 am. We fucked and slept, fucked and lollygagged, had a bit of coffee and toast. Then, day begun, I left for car- chores while you took a shower. We parted with the understanding that today was a day for fucking; we get those now and again.)

You are all but asleep, but I know you are laying in wait for me. It is the best of games; I tease you, you tease me; back and forth we tease until we cannot stand it any longer, then comes the most delicious fucking.

I stand near the foot of the bed; my erection thickly curves down against my leg, all but calm. I ask if you would like a massage. After all the pleasure you gave me last night, a full-body, slow-hands massage seems only too fair. Besides, darling lass, a massage is the next best thing to meditation (a gift of touch..., and we are always touching).

You say that a massage would be a wonderful thing; you know for a fact that the fucking we both desire will soon follow. Ah yes, the wonderful fucking.

I fetch the oil scented with tinctures of cinnamon and lavender (both aphrodisiacs), and ask you to lie straight on your stomach among the pillows with your arms at your sides. I climb the bed, sit next to your middle, and ask you to concentrate on your breathing. A long breath in, fill your lungs; a delicate pause; a long breath out. I place one hand on the back of your neck; the other at the base of your spine.

I ask you to make as if to say "ah" as you inhale; and "ha" as you exhale; aware of the breath filling your body. With my hands touching you, I join the rhythm, and we listen. There is power here in this sharing of mindful breathing. We breath--ah, ha--and the calm of exquisite anticipation overcomes the both of us.

I take up the oil, and pour a goodly amount on my hands. Then starting at the meatiest part of your spine at the neck, I draw my hands down your back, over your buttocks and down your thighs, calves, heels and feet. Time after time, I do this, applying more and more hand-warm oil. Aside the spine, both hands smoothing into your back and buttocks; many, many times.

I remind you to concentrate on the breathing.

My hands slide down your back; I draw them up your sides (and the swell of your breasts); more oil; I slide and draw many, many times. Moving around, I oil my hands the more and draw them up around your shoulders; repeating. I take first one arm and then the other, and draw my freshly oiled hands from shoulder to fingertip, pulling each hand down your arm (long strokes, these).

Then the legs; right leg first. Hands side by side, I slide them up the back of your leg from heel to cheek, over the cheek, and back down the sides to the ankle. Again and again, I do this. Then the other leg, teasing now and again the crack of your arse with the oiled heel of my hand; teasing the little hairs sprouting between you legs; teasing that tiny blush of your pussy with oiled fingers.

You shiver, goose-flesh rising, and I admonish you to breath, be mindful of your ah-ha breathing, please. You want the massage (and the fucking) as much as I, so back to the breathing you go.

The back and legs done, we pause; tingling.

I ask you to roll over on your back. This you are only too glad to do, and spread your legs open to me in the bargain. But, oh no, darling lass; not just yet!

I begin with your feet; more oil. Stroking from ankle to toes; ankle to toes, like smoothing a cloth. Thumbs circling the arches, the pads of the toes, that curl just under the toes. More oil. Stroking with both hands spread wide, first one leg from thigh to heel; then the other, many times. More oil. The stomach; ribs to bush, ribs to bush; circles, many, many circles. More oil. One hand on your breast, nipple "clamped" between thumb and finger; the other hand sliding down your stomach to bush and pussy. Ah, me. Change hands, more oil; breast, nipple, stomach, bush and pussy; I lavish much, much oil there; fingers and palm. Ah, me.

You stir and hump against my hand, but I tell you to breath. I lean down and in a long hot, breathy whisper I tell you to concentrate on the breathing and the sensation of physical power between your pussy, up your back, to your nipple. You draw one breath, and another; ah-ha.

Then the face and neck. More oil. I stroke your forehead; it feels like wiping sweat. You hold my wrists as I stroke. Eyebrows and temples many, many times. Around the backs of your ears, down your neck.

Your breathing simply eases; this involuntary smile of yours is beautiful to see. Your hands drop to your sides; you cannot hold them up anymore. You are completely relaxed; you exude the aura of luxuriating in those long moments of complete satisfaction after fucking.

So. Last but not least, your pussy. First, of course, more oil. I spread your legs, then lay the palm of my hand on your mound of fluffy hair, and slid my fingers between your thighs and over your pussy.

You exhale with a long "ha-a-a-a," and settle in with a squirm. Your delight makes my cock twitch. Ah, me.

I pour more oil across my knuckles, and wait for it to seep warmly through my fingers; generously dripping over your pussy. You tell me this feels lovely; just lovely. I remind you to concentrate on your breathing; ah- ha.

Then I spread the oil by drawing my hands, one after the other, from that crease between your rosebud, over your pussy (fingers inside and out), over your beauty mound, and all the way to your belly button. You cannot resist opening your legs even more--stretching open your pussy even more-- as I sweep my warm, oiled hands and fingers over and through that most tasty part of you.

Hands, warm and fragrant oil, pussy--lusty and sloppy; great balls of fire, we are both hotter than a two dollar pistol.

You are breathing in earnest, one hand on my cock, stroking it with your fingertips almost absentmindedly.

I can feel your buttocks flexing, that delightful rolling of the hips. More, you want more....

I place my left hand lightly across your bush, teasing up the hairs between my fingers, then stroke my fingers into your pussy and seek your clit, that loveliest of buttons. I stroke, and stroke, and stroke until this loveliest button of yours is erect--the size of a peanut, blush red, and easy to pleasure.

You lift your knees and plant your heels among the pillows; your beautiful pussy awaits.

No, there is one more stroke; the tastiest of all--aside from fucking. It begins with my left hand just there at the curl of your mound, gently spreading your pussy for the two fingers of my right hand (just so, as if for the Boy Scout salute). Ever so gently I slide my two fingers inside you, almost to the knuckle, and curl them, stroking as if in a "come hither" gesture against the last great secret pleasure of your body. What is always pleasing to me is that the texture of the oil and the texture of your cum are very different; the difference between silk and honey; just the thought makes my cock twitch in your hand.

I ask you to tell me when I reach your most secret spot, curling the fingers, curling them, curling; until "Bingo!" And I just keep at it, hooking the tips of my fingers over and over and over, caressing the spot. You are swimming with pleasure; long deep sighs; humping your thighs; crying out; rolling; working your legs, your heels whistling across the fabric of the pillows. It is a great shudder, and a you cum all over my hand.

You punch your breath Who, who, hom, ho! Who. Who. You grasp my cock suddenly like it is a pump handle (wow!); your squirm and squirm, rolling your neck, twisting and flexing every part of you.

I love to watch your orgasms; you are marvelous. A long moment I watch you melting into that powerful transformation.

I know you want me close; I want to be close to you. So I lie down, body to body; embracing you. You are luscious with ease; utterly relaxed, warm.

A great long moment we pause, easy and intimate; my hot breath in your hair. You hum and um, almost singing, and we nestle and squirm in the utter luxury of graceful, sated touch.

03. The Cat Nap.

You are so mellow and relaxed that you drop into irresistible sleep, still deeply and calmly breathing. Those last drifting thoughts are of the great itch I have scratched for you. Ah, me.

We move against each other as you ascend to sleep; my hand between your legs, tickling the damp, fragrant hair; the petit jus, the crème [of honey], the intimate fresh texture of your pussy. You with your hand gripping my buttock. You hand slacks and slacks, like the tick of a clock, until you are completely limp; literally unconscious. You dazzle and glow with pleasure, knowing way, way back in that most human place in your imagination; knowing that today is a day for fucking, and the hour is still early. A great long moment we hold each other, pleasured in the simple act of breathing and the warmth of smooth, sated skin. #

I ought to wash up; there's chores--dishes and the dog. Let me polish everything off, darling lass, and I'll be back. Sleep tight.

Slowly, quietly, I rise and dress and practically sneak out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

[start here]

A while later, chores done, I come through the bedroom to take a quick shower (I smell like wet dog). [what you look like in bed; the aura; the gesture; the aroma; the sense of immense space around you, around the bed; peace and calm; the anticipation of dandy fucking.]

I walk into the bedroom, drying off. You are dead asleep, easy among the pillows; the little light; one leg hiked up; the fluff of fuzzy fur decorates your pussy, glowing with oil, and making for the closet; your beautiful breasts, the curve of your back, that sleek line of your legs. Ah, me. [silk boxers, the hot oil (cayenne salve).]

Your beautiful pussy. I want to kiss your pussy, to suck and lick. I cannot help myself. I know that you want to fuck more than you want to sleep. Yours will be a most luxurious awakening.

Kissing you pussy; waking you from a dream of colors, that's all--just colors. And murmurs, you tell me later that you recall murmurs; and rabbits (of all things), lightning bolts of rabbits.

We exchange bawdy greetings.

I keep eating your pussy. You roll onto your back and settle your thighs on a pillow under me. I eat pussy till the cows come home; you reach into my boxer shorts and stroke my cock and guide my hand to your breasts; I pinch and pull and twist your nipples (so slowly, oh so slowly).

You tell me you want me from behind, and turn on your stomach, rising to your hands and knees. We fuck, and fuck, and fuck, like dogs [the talk].

We roll on our sides, still fucking, and you throw a leg over my thighs, and reach between your legs to stroke my cock, your pussy and clitoris ("peanut") as we fuck with hot strokes. Humpa-humpa-humpa. My hands are all over you; breasts, belly, kissing your neck; kissing your hands. The bed shakes.

You say Love this fucking. I twist and thrust; no, this fucking. We hump and stroke, squirming and pulling, pushing; No, you say this fucking. We talk and joke, kissing, and stroking each other while we fuck. It is luxurious, this intimacy.