He is here.
He stares up into the darkness. Remembers where he is.
He hears her say something.
“I asked, ‘Are you ok?'”
“Yes. Did I wake you? Was I snoring?”
“No.” Her voice is sleepy. “You started suddenly. As though you’d been surprised in a nightmare.”
He scans his memory, but it’s blank, like the pitch-black room.
“If I was dreaming, I don’t remember what it was about.”
“Go back to sleep,” she says softly, and rolls away from him.
Instinctively, he rolls next to her, snuggling against her back. He’s naked except for cotton shorts; she wears a cotton vest and pyjama trousers. His loins press against her buttocks quite naturally. It’s not a sexual gesture, but at same time, it is.
He feels her press back to meet him. It’s a tiny movement, scarcely discernible. But his senses are hyperaware. He’s surprised. A moment ago, he was unconscious. Now he’s alert, and focused. Focused on one thing.
He slips an arm over her, cups her left breast in his hand. It doesn’t have to be taken as a sexual gesture. It’s up to her. It’s always up to her.
She doesn’t try to shrink from his touch, to shrug him away, to remove his hand blatantly.
Her nipple is unruffled, but even as he cradles her, he feels it beginning to rise against his palm through the thin cotton of her vest. He presses his loins against her rear fractionally harder, and feels her pressing back just as modestly.
With those two instants, he knows that they’re going to fuck, that she wants him as much as he wants her.
He slips his hand onto her flat belly, lifts the hem of the vest to expose her bare skin. He draws his nails across her flesh, feels it flutter at his passage. She reaches back, finds his naked torso, scratches him lightly.
His hand slips lower, inside the elasticated waistband of her pyjamas. His fingers brush the uppermost fringe of her pubic hair. He tickles her until she groans lightly and pulls away.
He’s fully hard now. It’s been weeks since they fucked. He wills himself to be controlled. He doesn’t want to be consumed by his hunger, to be overtaken by his need.
He pulls at her pyjamas and she helps him to ease them down her legs. She kicks them away, and he hears them land softly on the carpeted floor. He strokes the outside of her uppermost thigh, then the backs of both thighs, always working upwards and inwards.
She gasps as his fingers brush across her sex.
He opens her with the care of an orchidophile.
She’s barely moist inside her labia. He licks his fingers, generously coating them with saliva. He works the liquid over the outside of her soft, plump lips, stroking her lightly, sensuously. He coats his fingers with more saliva, this time opening her fractionally so that he can moisten her cleft. She sighs with every caress, presses fractionally towards him, growing greedier for his touch. He lubricates his fingers a third time, and now he seeks out her clitoris, rimming it slowly, occasionally tracing its proud arch. She quivers.
He strokes her clit softly, building a steady rhythm she can lock onto, that she can lose herself in. But she edges herself away from his touch, and he understands that she craves penetration, yearns to feel his fingers inside her. Perhaps more than just his fingers.
She’s moist with excitement now, but still he licks his fingers, to make certain their passage is effortless.
He eases his index finger inside her heat. He penetrates her slowly, but he doesn’t stop until his digit is completely immersed within her. He rolls his finger around her, caressing her inner silk. She groans softly. The bedroom window is ajar, and he imagines someone hearing her, becoming aroused at her arousal. The thought excites him further. He withdraws his index finger as slowly as it entered, and presses his middle finger inside her in exactly the same fashion, with inexorable deliberation.
She works herself against her touch. He can’t do much, other than roll his finger around her insides. His wrist aches. His cockhead feels ready to rupture.
She reaches back, grasping his cock through his shorts. Her gasp tells him what she wants now.
He eases his finger from her flesh and pulls down his shorts. As he raises his hand to his mouth, he can smell her aromatic lust. He tastes it, shivering with pleasure. He smears saliva across his cockhead and along his shaft. He feels so hard, so thick. He feels smug, knowing how much more she will feel after the relative thinness of his fingers.
He eases his cock between her thighs, until his glans presses against her clit. She cries out softly, loud enough to turn his mind towards their imaginary eavesdropper once more. The thought of listening to her being fucked by another man, by a woman, by a couple, by a group, makes him shiver again.
His shaft fitted against her cleft, he fucks her clitoris with a measured pace that belies his near-frenzied need to be deep inside her cunt. He’s fucked her to orgasm like this before. Sometimes, she leaves the work to him: allows him to guide her body into the right position, to set the pace, to apply the right amount of force and keep her wet. Sometimes, when his rhythm is at odds with hers, she’ll take over, grasp his shaft between her thumb and forefinger and strum his glans across her clit until she gasps and shivers, until she cries out and bucks within his arms.
Whichever route she opts for, he knows that when she does orgasm, she’ll guide him inside her as soon as the waves of pleasure begin, prolonging her climax, or perhaps triggering a second.
Tonight, she takes matters into her own hand.
And as she begins to orgasm, she pushes his cockhead downwards, somewhat inelegantly in her haste, and suddenly there is no resistance to his compulsion to move forward.
His groan of pleasure meets hers as – finally – he slides inside her. A semi-intelligible “fuck” is all that he can utter once his full length has been absorbed within her.
They begin to fuck in earnest.
“I love your cunt,” he whispers to her. It’s true. He would worship her yoni day and night if she’d permit him, but opportunities to genuflect at her alter are too infrequent for him to be truly devout. The guilt is sudden, black flecked with red.
She doesn’t respond to his words. He’s never sure if they serve to arouse or annoy her, though he suspects and fears it is almost exclusively the latter. Not for the first time, he wishes that she would be more vocal in their lovemaking, that she wouldn’t hold back, share whatever wanton thoughts filled her mind’s eye as he thrust into her. In his heart, he is certain there is nothing carnal she might picture that would shock him, offend him, bring him stuttering to a halt with either resentment or jealousy. He just wants to know the secrets inside her, the imagery that she conjures – consciously or otherwise – when her cunt is drenched and her body on fire and her desires given full rein over her being.
After two decades of wishing and waiting, he knows his hopes are futile. And yet he still clings to them.
He feels the first, familiar beats of orgasm in his belly. He takes hold of her wrist, brings her hand to his mouth, licks the tips of her fingers. Then he draws her hand down, until her damp fingertips rest against her clitoris.
“Make yourself come for me,” he says to her in a low voice.
It’s not a request.
At first, the movement of her hand is lax, tepid. But the embers of pleasure still glow brightly inside her, and it isn’t long before her fingers are a blur, before her body is trembling and her hips are lifting off the bed as she coaxes herself to catch him, as she propels herself towards the finishing line.
“That’s it,” he says. “That’s it. Come for me. Come all over my cock.”
She does, beating him to the punch line in spite of his fears. Her orgasm is all but done when he experiences the first, deep throb. He draws back, so that she feels his come surging along the length of her cunt.
He begins to spurt uncontrollably
“Fuck!” he says again, loud and clear enough to be heard and understood by any eavesdropper there might be. She turns her face towards him. His vision has grown accustomed to the gloom, and he can see her eyes widen as she feels the potency of his lust as it pulses inside her.
“Fuck,” she says, quieter than he, but just as earnest. She reaches down to cup his balls tenderly, stroking them as if to encourage them to give her every last drop.
Spent, he settles back and glances at the glowing numerals on his Seamaster. Almost two-thirty. Four hours until alarm time. He closes his eyes contentedly.
He holds her as they lie together, the two of them breathing in the scents of their lovemaking as their hearts slow and their bodies relax. His cock is diminishing, but she still holds him inside her, reluctant to let him go. Her warmth and softness is comforting beyond words.
If only it could always be like this.
He corrects himself. Often like this.
He feels himself slipping back towards the abyss from which he’s only just emerged. He doesn’t try to fight. He doesn’t think he’ll wake her with any more sudden starts this night.
“Are you falling asleep?” he hears her ask.
“Go back to sleep.”
He hardly hears her. Staring into the blackness inside his eyelids, his thoughts an incoherent, languid swirl of unclaimed lusts and untested desires, he loses his grip on the world, forgets where he is.
He is gone.