Anticipation by Anel Viz

Anticipation

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I have a key to Paul’s house. When I’ve stayed late in town and don’t need to be back home the next morning, I let myself in. I shower and climb naked into his bed, do some paper work or read, turn out the light, and go to sleep. He gets off work at three in the morning, and, like baby bear, finds me sleeping in his bed, but he’s seen my car in the driveway and it doesn’t surprise him. Me, maybe, but not often. I can sense the presence of the man I love in my deepest sleep.

He leaves his work clothes on the floor corner and goes to shower. I’m not yet entirely awake and feel too warm and cozy to get up. If I’m patient he’ll have a special welcome for me.

I roll onto my back and make space for him between my legs. I may sit up slightly in bed, or half open my eyes to see him come back in the room with my favorite white bath towel draped around his waist, or feel too lazy to open my eyes at all. Even sound asleep I roll onto to my back and spread my legs, so I know that I don’t need to wake up to know he’s back.

He brings a glass of juice since my mouth will be dry and I’ll want to use it, or if I’m sleeping heavily, coffee. If I’m up, he’ll say hello, ask what brought me to town, small talk before starting his welcome. If he thinks I’m feigning sleep, to tease my anticipation he’ll let the towel slip from his waist and stand naked before my veiled gaze, sit at the foot of the bed and wait. I think he starts right away if I truly am asleep. How would I know?

I’m hard under the quilt. I wake up hard, and desire and anticipation keep me aroused.

He’ll take his time when he takes me. We’ll build slowly to our passion, not like after a date, when we come home and throw ourselves at each other, rip off our clothes, kiss and lick and bite, cling to one another, give ourselves up to the sexual frenzy kindled by hours spent together – his warmth, his smell, his smile so close – and held back because, much as you want to leap across the table, you can’t hump your honey in public.

He lifts the quilt and slips the upper half of his body underneath. First I’ll feel a soft lick behind my knee. By the time he takes my whole shaft into his mouth he’ll have worked up a sweat and thrown off the covers. Till then he’ll improvise. Not an inch of me will remain uneaten. Tonight’s menu? My dick. Paul is a meat and potatoes man. His appetizer, however... hors-d’œuvre variés are by definition an assortment to be nibbled at in whatever order you please. So he starts behind my knee and feasts heartily from slurp to nuts. From the moment the food comes to the table we have dessert in mind. It’ll be rich, but we’ll take second helpings.

I touch his shoulder or weave my fingers into his hair to circulate the energy that flows from him into me. I sigh; he makes the happy noises of a baby sucking at the breast. I raise my butt and push my hips into his face, open my legs wider to expose parts of me that long to feel his teasing tongue and leisurely lips. I want this welcome to go on forever, but can’t resist the urge to draw him up to lie on top of me and press my mouth to his, and the blowjob ends. The kiss will end too. We roll over and I lie on him, still kissing. I get to my knees and go down on him or roll him over and bury my face in his ass. I’d like to rim and suck and tongue and slobber over him for all eternity, but the urge to penetrate him will cut it short before I’ve had my fill.

Rolling over reverses our roles; I take the lead and he submits. Wakefulness has returned to me; he sinks ever deeper into passivity as I sink deeper into him. His senses heighten, the growing pleasure overwhelms him and obliterates all feeling except the breaking surf inside and the pressure and warmth of my body that immobilize him while I bury him in kisses. His own moaning racks him no less. When my throbbing has filled him and I withdraw, flaccid and assuaged, from the soft wrapping of watered silk that has contracted around its shrinking, his final gasp as my plug slips out will exhaust him utterly. He’ll curl up against me and sink into blissful unconsciousness in the safety of my arms.

I feel physical pleasure at his touch, but emotion wells up inside me when I touch him. In him, I feel my heart will burst, being on him, his whole body pressed against mine, holding him, my tongue on his neck. He fills my soul as my sex fills his body. I lose myself deep in his warmth and yielding firmness. His cries fill my night; he draws my fingers into his mouth to stifle them.

I unleash a final fury that cuts his breath short. The sap rises within me and overflows into him sweet and sticky, one spasm in two bodies, my orgasm writhing at the center of his, two bodies spent, our last glimmer of energy breathed out in a lingering kiss. Then stillness.

Anticipation, arousal, contact, union, fulfillment, satiety, closeness, sleep – the scenario of our intimacy, a parabola of passion that only seems to subside, for the hunger never dies. When I slip inside him, every thrust increases my desire, and my eruption heightens it. Fulfillment? Satiety? Why, then, can’t I get enough of him?

Posted: 05/16/08