And all the while I think of you.
It has been agony since you left. Since that moment all I have done is think of you. Every waking moment the air is filled with your scent, my mind imagines your voice, your touch, your breath, your voice. Your tits, your clit, your cunt, your firm thighs wound around my head, your tongue in all my cavities, your rugby-handling hands clamping my wrists. FuckSuckLickFlickClitCunt words breathing in my ear.
I wonder if you think of me as you go about your work. Are you distracted by memories of drawing my nipples into your full, soft mouth, and the feel on your tongue as they stiffen and swell? Do you dwell on thoughts of my cunt, swollen and slick with your saliva, mingling with my fuck juice? Does a smile dance across your lips as your recall the toybox and the games we played? My box and your play within it? Filling my ass? Do you run your hand across your crewcut, and get wet at the thought of me holding the vibrating clippers against your scalp, running it up your nape and around your ears? Do you know I am wearing your unwashed jersey - the one impregnated with your sweat and smell? Do you have a suspicion that I have kept your used nickers wadded so I can sniff the juice-stiffened crotch?
Of course, before we met, I knew your reputation well. Your brilliance on the sporting field meant the media discretely avert their gaze. Unstated, but obvious dyke. Your captaincy of the national hockey team to Olympic gold, your subsequent career as coach and occasional commentator, your love of women's rugby were all well documented. Your military-short hair, your muscular physique and your dykey gait made you an icon and figure of lust amongst all the girls. Femmes, and bois like me, dreamt of your touch; dom butch dykes wondered who would come off best in an arm-wrestle!
Once I dreamt of you running me down in a tackle on the rugby field. In the way of dreams I wasn't wearing any underwear, and as I fell to the ground, your arms gripping my legs, one hand found its way towards my ass, which you cupped, hooking your index finger underneath and pressing my clit. As I struggled up from the tackle, your finger ran along my labia, and pressed momentarily into my cunt.
It has been twenty-four hours since I stood in for your flu-bed-bound barber before the Grand Final game of the season. One hour before each match you have a locker-room head-shave. Twenty one hours since I joined the victory celebrations. Sixteen hours since you clasped me tight and led me to your bed. Fifteen hours and thirty minutes since my first cum with you. Four hours since you left for media calls and said "Stay!"
Two hours until your promised return. Time, at last, to drift into a dream-soaked sleep.
