Tick tick tick tick. It's almost four am and I am alone in bed. The house is silent except for the ticking of his typewriter. Like his old typewriter...I am turned on.
It's not what he is writing, although his creativity and imagination are sexy and I love to read his ramblings of every day life. But it's the ticking. The pounding on the keys, the sound of him pushing of the letters one by one, and the swing of the bar. Tick, schwip, bing! I love it.
When he uses his laptop in the evenings, nothing! The squishing sound of the keys doesn't quite make me want to grab his hand and force his strong powerful fingers down my pants. But the old typewriter does. What's the difference? It's has to do with the necessary strength of his fingers finding each letter and pushing it down hard, making it do what he commands.
I wait patiently in bed for him to finish his thoughts. He gets very creative in the middle of the night. He can write for hours, which sometimes creates a problem. I get tired of waiting and resort to my old battery operated friend, which is good, but not the same as the real thing. A woman craves the touch of her lover. His breath on her face. His smell filling the air. And the weight of him as he enters her. No vibrator can do all that!
When I hear the last piece of paper ripped from the machine, my heart begins to pound. I quietly prepare myself for his return to our bed. I swiftly remove my panties and night gown and lay them on the floor beside me. He has to notice that I go to bed dressed but when he comes back in... naked. But I don't care. Half the fun is the pretending.
I hear his footsteps in hall as the floorboards yield to his every step. He tries his best not to disturb my sleep, although I am sure he knows I am awake and waiting for him. As the door, creaks open, no light enters the room. He is very considerate not to turn on any lights that might ruin the mood.
