Nine-One Thousand

I'm jolted awake by a peel of thunder, followed quickly by lightning. Seconds later, more thunder rolls over the house. I sit up, momentarily disoriented, but then I look down at my bed mate, and the world comes back to me. She moves just a little, mumbles something unintelligible, then she's still again. She's laying on her stomach, the blanket we share is bunched up around her thighs, leaving her back, and that shapely ass of hers exposed to the room. The room flashes again, and I count in my head. The counting is less about calculating the distance of the lightning strike, and more about reliving a favorite childhood memory.

One one thousand... two one thousand...

My hand caresses her ass, then I slowly drag my fingers up, along her side.

... five one thousand... six one thousand...

I reach her shoulder, gently gather up the few strands of dark hair covering her face, and pull them back over her slender neck.

... nine one thousand... ten one thousand...

She smiles, play bites at my fingers, then turns her face toward the window, flipping that lovely hair at me, then she sinks back into the pillow.

...twelve one thousand..

Thunder slowly crawls by outside as I turn, and climb to my feet. My phone is laying on the night stand. I knock twice on the display, and the numbers 3:04 momentarily light up the screen.

"Midnight snack?" The voice behind me is sleepy.

"Three A M snack." I respond.

"Bring me a brownie." She says to the window, lifting her head just enough to squeak the words over her pillow.

"Comin' right up." I say, walking out into the hall way.

I pass by my sister's room. Her door hangs open. It's quiet and empty, and makes me think of how lonely the house must feel at times, when she and I are away at college. It's a big house, full of memories. I wonder what mom does to keep busy during the days, when we're not there. She'd lost a lot of weight over the winter, as well as toned up remarkably, thanks to one of the other neighbor moms dragging her off to the gym every morning. So I imagine that she'd been at it pretty hard while we were gone. It seems to be the empty-nester thing to do now-a-days. It's certainly healthier than sitting on the couch, watching day time talk shows and shitty soap operas all day long.

As I descend the stairs, the silhouette of the large living room window lights up the wall next to me for a moment, and I begin counting again. That memory comes back to me as I do, of nine year old me curled up in my mother's lap, terrified of the thunder, but momentarily distracted by our counting in unison after each flash of lightning.

It occurs to me that we haven't had a good storm in a long time. Lots of rain but not near this much thunder. It always makes me think of those nights with my mother, remembering how her voice, and the warmth of her body around mine, calmed me down and made me feel safe.

I barely get to one thousand three, and reach the kitchen, when the loudest crack of thunder yet, shakes the wine glasses hanging from the cabinet behind me. I briefly consider turning on the kitchen light, but then I remember that more of those huge windows occupy nearly every wall on the ground floor of the house, and I opt not to. There is always the chance that the storm has awakened our neighbors, and those lights would turn our kitchen into a giant, neighborhood theater, with my naked ass as the star of the show.

I pull open the refrigerator door, spilling light out into the kitchen. The cold air hits me, reminding me that my cock, balls and thighs are still a little wet from my earlier activities with she-who-craves-brownies, currently snoozing in my bed. I squint my eyes at the light, but they adjust quickly, and I find the leftovers sitting on the middle shelf.

A few minutes later I'm sitting in the breakfast nook, watching the rain softly hitting the windows around me with a gentle tapping sound. I eat a small bowl of chicken and rice, as the image of my mother, leaning over nine year old me, forms in my mind again. She was wearing one of dad's old, stretched out, white tank tops. I remember she used to wear those as "comfies" around the house all the time when we were little. They just sort of hung on her, displaying a more than generous amount of skin all around. I remember vividly, the feel of that warm skin against my face as we counted together. Then the thunder would hit, I would jump, and she would squeeze me tighter, smiling at me. Then we would wait for the next flash of lightning.

Those tank tops went away when dad left. I miss them. Him... not so much.

I got over that fear of thunder pretty quickly, but I continued to play the counting game with my mother for years. Thunderstorms meant cuddling, feeling her warmth, listening to her voice, and feeling her soft kisses on my forehead. My sister is younger than me by several years, but I don't remember her ever sharing my fear of lightning and thunder. She always seemed enthralled by a good rain storm, but sometimes she would sit next to us, just to count with us. That part was fun for everybody.

My fork makes that familiar tinkling sound as I scrape the last bits of rice out of my bowl, and the living room once again comes to life for a split second as lightning strikes somewhere off in the distance. I resume mentally counting, as I rinse my bowl in the sink.

I get to seven one thousand when the thunder reaches the house. It's not as loud as last time, certainly further away. The corner of the kitchen lights up again, as I remove the tray of brownies from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and the door closes behind me with that familiar snapping sound. Mom always makes brownies for us when we come home to visit, it's become something of a tradition.

The rain picks up, now pelting the window with considerably more force.

I use a butter knife to cut a decent sized brownie out of the tray, place it on a small plate, and pop it in the microwave. I hit the start button, the light comes on inside, and the brownie begins to rotate. While it does, I open the can of cherry pie filling that mom left on the counter. This is something else that she only recently started doing, putting cherry pie filling on top of her brownies. So damn good.

The microwave dings, the light goes out, and it's dark in the kitchen again. I remove the brownie, find a fork, and pour a generous amount of cherries on top of the brownie.

As I start back toward the stairs, my mind drifts back to a few hours before. The aforementioned devourer of brownies was pinned on her stomach, I held both of her wrists behind her back with one hand, and my other fist was full of her hair, holding her head up as I pushed my cock into her from behind. She was so soft and wet, so warm, so fucking perfect. As I ascend the stairs, I feel my dick coming back to life, remembering how great it felt mercilessly pounding away at her, hearing those delightful gasping noises she made with each thrust.

There is another lighting strike, just as I reach the top of the stairs. It flashes on the wall opposite my bedroom door.

I begin counting out loud, softly. "One one thousand... two one thousand...".

I enter the room, where I can hear her counting as well.

"... three one thousand... four one thousand..." Her voice is sleepy but cheerful. She's laying on her back now, one knee raised. Her full breasts are illuminated by the street lamp not far outside my bedroom window. I can make out a smile on her face as I set the plate on the night stand.

"... five one thousand... six one thousand..." She says, rolling over onto her knees and crawling to meet me at the edge of the bed. The smile on her face grows wider when she looks at me, and sees my erection pointing back at her.

She pulls herself toward me, and settles on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. Kicking both feet up in the air, crossing them behind her as she tilts her head just a little, she opens her mouth wide, and moves in slowly.

"... seven one thousand... eight one thousand..." I continue counting, feeling the wet, warmth of her mouth enveloping my dick.

"... nine one thousand..." My voice stutters just a bit when I feel the tip enter her esophagus, it clenches around my cock spasmodically. She halts there for a moment, then masterfully takes me all the way down, until I can feel her nose pressing against my pelvis.

Just as another lazy roll of thunder makes its way over us, those same lips that used count with me, and lovingly kiss me on the forehead when I was nine years old, now slowly close around the base of my cock.