We laid on the bed, and I immediately cuddled in his arms. I knew what was about to come, Alex had this gleam in his eyes, a tiny mischievous flame in there that was going to translate in his voice, and ignite the evening.
It was Bedtime Story Hour.
Alex has this way with words, words as agile as his long, supple, tender hands. Every time, they make their way onto my flesh, working it gently, wrapped as they are in his warm, husky voice.
"Would you care to have a look at what is going on in the subway, right now?" he said, smiling.
"Yes, I would like that very much, Alex."
The game was afoot.
The object of game is for me to remain aloof and attentive to the story, and not to jump the storyteller before he has finished. My statistics are not so good. But I am a very happy woman.
"Ok," Alex went on. "So we are aboard the Montreal Metro, deep in the bowels of the City. Late evening. Not many people yet on the subway. Only tired, and lost, and late people. Picture it?"
"Oh yes, I do." I was squirming with pleasure, already.
"Now. There is a young woman standing up. One hand holding a post, the other reading some girlie magazine. She is evidently high class. West Island, for sure. Designer clothes. Short flowery skirt, short beaded jacket, long hair. She is tall and slim, but with curves everywhere anyway. Make-up, jewels, manicure, the whole nine yards. Pretttttttty. The type anyone would want to fuck anytime, man or woman. See the type?"
"I already want her for myself," I moaned.
My hand was already resting there, so I thought Alex would not mind if I started caressing his thigh. He made a slapping sound with his tongue -- lashing sound -- and he slapped my hand away.
"Let me at least begin this story!" His tone was falsely scolding, he was enjoying the game at least as much as I was. "So... there stands the pretty girl. But... sitting not so far away, you and I can tell that she is growing... nervous. Somehow. Not totally concentrated on her reading. Oh. Maybe because of this man facing her, sitting, sprawled, really. He is tall, strong, crumpled, unkempt, his cargo pants and tired coat speak working class. Unshaven. Mop of dark curly hair, tousled. Intensely bright green eyes. Reminds you of anyone you know?"
"Oh God, no... He looks too much like you! ..."
I was laughing hysterically. Alex had just described himself as I have seen him in photos of his past... a gloriously gorgeous rebel. Now, he looks slightly more sophisticated, stronger, more of a gloriously gorgeous gentleman. In bed, still, naked, his flesh subtly tinted by the golden light of a single candle, he looks like a King.
"Hmmm? Well, yes! Oh yes, but just a coincidence." Alex sneered at the implication. "He is watching her hard enough that she can very well feel uneasy. Hmmm. He stares at her, up and down. He glares at her breasts, at her crotch. His eyes are so focused, we can tell, you and I, can't we?"
"Oh, so much. He is getting hard for her!"
Wanting to illustrate the story (what is a bedtime story without proper imaging?) I groped at the storyteller's crotch... another pitiless slap. But he who tells the story leads the game, and so has every right. Alex took advantage of the rules he had invented himself, and gently caressed my breasts with the back of his hand.
"He wants her alright," Alex agreed, "but he knows she is out of his league. Some West Island bitch with a career and nothing but disdain for guys like him, leering at girls on the Metro, which now stops... doors open. The girl squirms and fidgets, and watches the open doors. She is afraid and wants to leave. Then... have you seen the smallest smile there? The blush on her cheeks? Did you see it too?"
"Oh. The wanton bitch. She is wetting for him."
"Yup. Her heart is beating fast, she knows she should flee, yet she remains there. Faking to read her serious fashion mag. How are we doing, babygirl?"
But I am not really allowed to respond, am I? That game is really a test of endurance. I know I will ultimately lose it. And Alex knows it too. So why spoil the fun and let him be aware of my desire too soon? Why submit to the King so easily?
"Feeling sleepy, but go ahead," I yawned treacherouly.
He was no fool, my beloved, to my false indifference. His boyish grin said so.
"Shall I continue?" there was a hint in his voice that he might not.
"Might as well," I hastily retorted.
"So at last, he moves. Gets up on his feet. Walks towards her. All the while, glaring at her with furious emerald lust."
"Mmmmm... I so know that look."
I am allowed at least to shift my body in his arms, in his warmth, to lay upon his chest, to smell his maddening scent. The scent of a beloved man... nothing is as sweet. Nothing.
"He grabs the pole too," Alex said, holding me a bit closer, "touching her fingers with his own. She moves her hand away as if shocked, her breathing stops, and starts again, slightly more on the panting mode. She does not dare look into his eyes, so she looks down... at the bulge at his crotch."
I am no actress. Not when it comes to what Alex does to me. A short, stunning throb started between my legs. I could not refrain a deep moan from coming out through my bathed breath.
"What the hell was that?" Alex enquired, as if he did not know.
