For My Valentine 1

I'm looking at the room upside down, my head hanging off the edge of the hotel bed. Not quite enough for all the blood to rush there, but enough to enjoy the vision of lamps seemingly springing from the floor like fountains of light. I'm just out of the shower, and if I don't get myself together soon, my hair will be tangled and impossible to style. But I can't seem to rouse myself quite yet. You are naked, and I need (yes, I said NEED) to watch as you pack. I stare as you stride fearlessly, hanging from the ceiling, oblivious to my gaze.

Maybe this would be better if I turned on my side.

I love to look at you when you don't know or care that I am watching. The sight of the muscles working in the back of your calves, the tender skin at the base of your neck, or your dark eyes as you gaze into the middle distance, pondering something; all these are pretty much guaranteed to entice me. Of course, it's a catch-22, because when you turn the force of your charm on me -- well, that certainly sucks me in as well.

Basically, right now, I crave you at least a little bit during every second I am in your presence - and much of the time when I'm not. God, that sounds ridiculous, and corny as a $1.99 Hallmark card. I hate those sweeping, romantic, prom song generalizations. OK -- I can say with some certainty that I had no desire to have sex with you when we accidentally got a 3AM wake-up call this morning. But that's about it.

Egads - I want to find the green gods that molded you and see if they installed this particular voice simply so it could unspool in my ear like a velvet ribbon. I want to ask if that mouth was tested among millions of others and found to be the one that would fit mine like the lid to a jar. I want to stop looking at you like some kind of tail-wagging puppy. I want some greasy breakfast. I don't want to go. I want you now -- again - and for God's sake, how can you keep walking past my sprawled, clean, naked body? Have you no heart?

"Hey," I say, my voice low and a little rough. "Why don't you just bring that thing on over here?"

You give me a growling chuckle, acknowledging me, but nothing more. Acknowledging me as though I had just made some witticism, rather than giving voice to a lust that, now that I've loosened my hold on it, is causing my hips to shift against the thin, disordered blankets and my nipples to tighten painfully. I roll onto my stomach, ankles crossed, so I can surreptitiously grind into the mattress. You are rolling up a t-shirt tightly and fitting it neatly into place. God help me, I want to be that fucking t-shirt, your fingers deftly manipulating me just -- so.

I steeple my hands under my chin, try again. "You know, we don't need to check out for almost an hour."

"I still need to shower. You weren't serious, were you? What, you want to try for 11? Haven't you had enough of me?"

I tilt my head, my toe tracing circles in the air, and look at you slyly. "Your honor, I would like the record to show that I have never been the sort to engage in adolescent sexual record-keeping, and while I AM willing to stipulate that there have indeed been 10 prior sexual encounters during the past -- um -- 44 hours, I believe that we should review this case on its own merits, without regard for precedent. You, me, naked, one hour available -- I think the correct decision here is obvious.

"Alternatively, we might consider the indeterminate but unavoidably long drought of sexual activity that is going to commence shortly and see that as grounds for a compassionate adjudication of my plea.

"Or, in summation -- yes, yes, no."

You laugh appreciatively and walk over to the bathroom door. Your cock sways just a bit as you step, taunting me. As you move away, I so desperately want to reach out and trail my fingers over you; I can almost imagine I feel your warmth under my hands. But I figure I've already covered all the bases in pathetic behavior. You're right, of course -- we really should be getting ready to go.

And then you turn and LEAP onto the bed, bouncing like a 6-year old. Immediately, we are wrestling and giggling, and I say, once again, "Now, why don't you bring that thing on over to me, baaaaaaaby?" You lift your eyebrow and I just grin, open my mouth and point -- that's how wanton I've become. Feed me that gorgeous cock of yours and I promise -- well, the truth is, I'm not promising a thing. I can't even promise that I won't try and seduce you at brunch, should the opportunity arise.

I suppose I can pretty safely promise that you won't be sorry.

You actually showered late last night, so you still smell clean; just a little warm and musky from our prior exertions. I could happily bury my face in your neck, but I have this (surely unfounded) fear that you will stop me soon, so I don't waste any time on niceties. I wriggle out from under you and urge you onto your back so that I can kneel between your legs. I love the feeling of near-worship I experience as I bend down to take you into my mouth, eyelids fluttering. You are already hard for me, and I use my lips to tease your head, running my tongue around and under the glans, particularly that sweet little spot in front that always makes you moan. With my left hand I cradle your tight balls (how did you get so excited so fast?) and with my right I slowly massage the shaft, sliding your skin over the inner steel core. Little beads of pre-come are already beginning to ooze from you and I lap at them with my tongue pointed, humming happily.

After a few minutes, I descend, keeping one hand on you. The scrotal skin is even more delicate. I like to draw one ball into my mouth and use just a little suction, while running my eager tongue over it. But soon they become so tight that it is hard to do more than press against them, my tongue flat.

While I'm here I let my mouth run over your perineum a bit. I'm tempted to flip you over and ravage your tasty ass, but there's a sense of time running out in my head. I decide to keep it simple.

I move back up and take the shaft fully into my mouth again, rising and falling, my tongue dancing over your ridge. I reach under and scoop your tight butt into my hands so that I can push you in with more force. So good! You can sense what I want and you start to pump against my mouth, though with more restraint than I could manage at this point. You brush the hair away from the side of my face and I meet your eyes for a moment. I don't stop moving over you. Your cock disappears into my throat until I nearly gag, have to remind myself to do something as simple as breathe. I hold your gaze and watch the excitement in your face grow. I can feel you thickening; the edges of your opening swelling up like a little mouth that I want to kiss with just the tiniest tip of my tongue. Your thighs tense next to me - you are pushing yourself to come, and I want to tell you no. No, you will not shorten this experience. You will come when I am good and ready and believe me, it is going to take some time before I feel like I've had enough, even for the moment. You will let me savor you until I finally drive you over the edge, and then I will lap up each and every drop of your come.

But I don't, and you do, and even though part of me is mentally shaking a fist like a foiled cartoon villain, I can't help but revel in the way you give yourself over to the sensations of the moment. Then I rest my head on your belly and wait for our breathing to slow, your hands caressing my impossibly disordered hair.

How many times will I do this before you can truly believe that I love it beyond all measure? How could I not revel in the way you look, feel, taste, smell -- and most of all, respond to my mouth?

I need a Hallmark card with a dew-covered rose on it that says, "Darling....

I was born to suck your cock."