The grandfather clock in the hall chimes six o’clock as he stands framed in the doorway. Exactly on time. Precision! Thats what I like in a man. Dependability, reliability, a good shirt that’s well fitting with no gape at the navel and no buttons missing. A smart suit and a pair of leather shoes, and all the manners that maketh man.

Excitedly I greet him, hug and kiss him, breathing in the mixed aromas he’s brought from outside. We exchange pleasantries, views, news of our wives, a little anecdote gleaned from a taxi ride.

He takes off his coat and hangs it on a hook by the door; a long green scarf follows his hat and his gloves. Scents swirl around him as he steps from the hall.

“Do you think……do you think you could make me a drink?” he enquires with a smile.

“Coffee, Tea or Me?” I ask lightly.

That is the question and the start of our game. It always brings a laugh, not forced, but natural, for wherever the keys for his now somnambulant stallion finally clatter those are the choices. He knows that whatever he does he’ll get a cup of tea anyway, but the choices after that are his to make, not mine. He’s the maker not the made this time, the instigator, the perpetrator, and for what? Why for only and solely for the wild pleasures it brings.

Then his keys clatter and he giggles, always, no matter what, while his tea brews, a steaming scented sanctuary in one corner of the kitchen.

Clatter into the fruit bowl, not onto the table itself, not into the drawer.

Coffee, Tea, or Me? “Really” I laugh. “Really!”

Quickly he sips, then his cup’s aside, his lips seeking the sweeter taste of mine. And while his tea cools its warmth transfers, confers, defers, to us, its heat and its sweetness and the energy it took to move molecules, to raise their temperature to one hundred and three.

He puts sherbet in his mouth this time, an old trick, but one which always excites me. He’s used grapes too, and cherries, and once an entire raw egg. Without the shell of course! What fun that was and what a mess it made!

“One day,” he says, and though he’s promised it several times, so far it has never happened, “I’ll bring fresh cum, someone else’s, in my mouth just for you”

“Maybe you will, one day” I say, looking at him amusedly.

He laughs at the effects of the sherbet clouding his mouth and mine, seizing our nostrils, inducing coughing, more laughs…….

On the floor at the side of the sofa our shoes jumble together suggestively, size nines and size tens, in a copulation like heap.

“Do you think,” he grins, looking down at them as he sits, “they’ll breed if we leave them like that for long enough?”

“Perhaps,” I nod, thinking aiglets and eyelets obscurely. “But they’ll bear only twins, size nineteen with two left feet each……”

“I might wear brogues next time” he murmurs, licking sherbet off my face, taking time with his tongue to make me shiver.

“Brown brogues with oxblood polish on them……”

He sighs expansively causing the cups and saucers to clatter while our shoes still lie silent and unmoving in a heap. They’re not even wriggling, damn them! Perhaps they won’t do anything while we’re watching.

“They’re shy!” I say, throwing my shirt over them.

My lover laughs while I kneel down between his knees. I want to suck him and I know he wants me to do it but he won’t let me do it yet. He will make me wait, tease me with anecdotes and innuendo until I get sarcastic or sulky. He closes his eyes and I wonder if he’ll notice if I try to unzip him. He does of course, there is a smile on his face and a little sigh as he stays my hand, unbuttons his shirt and lets me play with his nipples.

“Are you going to….. fuck me in a minute?” I ask lightly “Or is there something else you’d rather do?”

“Do you think” he begins with exaggerated mock seriousness “that I’d drive all this way then not take the time or the trouble to fuck you when I get here?”

“I don’t know” I tell him feigning innocence.

“Then you are stupid!” he says “Out of touch, shut up in this house all day with no-one to talk to……….”

“So are you?” I ask again, nibbling his nipples politely.

“When……. if, you stop asking, then I might” he says tantalisingly.

He puts his fingertips together to form an arch and looks through it at me.

“Go and get dressed!” he says sharply “and do something with your face while you are at it! You look like a slut”

“Then you’ll fuck me?” I ask eagerly.

“Might do!” he condescends.

Its all part of our game.

………………..

The wardrobes and chests of drawers in my bedroom contain all the things I need to dress up for his, and my, pleasure. All kinds of lovely clothing is there, jewellery and scents and, lying ready on the bed are the garments I got out earlier.

Putting the clothes on takes about five minutes and to me is an act which is almost sacred. I dress slowly, methodically, my hands shaking with a growing rush of excitement.

I roll stockings along my legs luxuriously, smoothing them upwards until they are sheer and tight against my skin. The nylon swishes so cool and, oh so……so…..

Even the pressing together of the clip and the button is a magical act of transformation.

I shudder stiffly and shrug off the urge to masturbate.

Then there are skirts and petticoats and an incredible corset and bra complete with just enough padding to suggest nicely shaped thirty four breasts.

Rings, brooches, ear-rings and some pearls for my neck.

I sit at my dressing table and apply makeup, taking my time in order to get it just right.

A tailored evening jacket awaits me on a hanger by the door. Silk lined in dark green it is made from the softest of velvets.

“Would you come here a moment?” I call as I open the door.

Sometimes our boundaries and roles do tend to blur, we begin one way and end another, with many a twist and turn in between. That’s the way we both like it. Its all part of our game.

When he does appear he is naked and deliciously erect.

He smiles, suddenly unsure of himself when he sees me, wondering if he’s made a wrong move or one too early. I smile back, looking at his cock, recalling the way it feels when it is inside me.

“Now who is too eager?” I ask.

“I hoped you’d wear that” he says, his voice all a’quiver. He means the jacket of course. I am aware of how much he loves it. It is a singularly erotic garment for both of us in fact, even the depth of it’s colour gives me a tingly sort of feeling when I look at it, but it is the coolness, the smooth, sensuous slippery silkyness of it which is the turn on really.

He wants to rub his chest against the jacket, feel it slither across his shoulders, his face his mouth. I get hold of his cock, draw him closer and as it makes contact with him he shudders and, incredibly, I feel him getting harder.

He attempts to grope me but I push his hands away. That’s not the way I want it to happen. Instead I pull him closer to me, kneading his buttocks and letting his hardness press stiffly against my own through skirt and petticoats and, a surprise for him, exquisite pale blue knickers. We kiss hungrily, his roughness sharp against the smoothness of my own face, so painstakingly made. I want to bite him, slap him, deprive him for as long as I can, feel his hunger grow, as mine does, until it becomes so overwhelming it might easily burst into spontaneous flame.

The velvet jacket smears great dark green gouts of heat across his chest, green against gold, distorting his nipples, lapels scorching his collarbone, collar curling into the curve of his neck. He groans, starving, salivating, desires running out of all control.

Last time I lay back on the sofa for him. That time was different. Different clothing, different textures, scents, different everything. Last time it was white cotton crotchless knickers. This time I kneel on the floor for him, on a little rag rug with my head and shoulders on the side of the bed. I close my eyes and wait for him to fumble, to lift my skirts and petticoats and throw them high up over my head. My body aches for him. Aches for him so much that the discomfort alone is almost enough to bring me to orgasm.

This time he discovers I am wearing blue silk knickers, loose fitting and long legged, with a matching suspender belt and sheer stocking which accentuate the shape of my legs.

This time he pretends innocence, not fooling me but doing it anyway because he knows I want him to. Slowly he tests the softness of the skin beneath the silks, smoothing his hands across and around the roundness, reaching eventually, everso casually, down between my legs.

This time he smells the perfume I’ve put on especially for him, on purpose to goad him, to add fuel to the heat, to the friction between us.

This time he makes me say dirty words to him, over and over again while he fondles me, squeezing me and stroking me and making me squirm.

But this time he takes his time, moving slowly and steadily, enough to make me groan and sigh, then a little more, enough to take my breath away, when he is ready.

And this time, when he is ready, his hands hurry and haul and hold that silken crotch aside so that his slick slithery tongue can slip and slide straight in.

This time I groan deeply when he rims me, jerking and thrusting myself at his face, calling him a filthy bastard and a cunt just like he asked me.

This time I implore him to fuck me, wanting his cock to impale me more, much more than anything else in the world by that time.

But this time he takes his time, moving slowly and steadily, spreading and lubricating and making me wait.

This time, even as he mounts he feigns innocence. What must he do, he asks. I want to bite him, hit him, pull out all of his hair and watch him bleed. Instead I reach for him, grab and hold, poised and terrible, his mighty thing.

“Fuck me!” I scream.

And he does.

The familiarity returns then, with his weight, his hands, with all of him. He is not so big that I cannot take him or I so tight he cannot get in easily. It’s an unfamiliar familiarity, made different by the situation we find ourselves in, part of the unending game we play, him for me and me for him.

O Hell, uh hell, ow hell he feels so delicious! I stretch myself out, back arched, turn my head sideways and press my upper body into the bed. His movements are predictable, slow, for there is no rush, no haste, no records to make nor any to beat. Measuredly I know how close I am to cumming though as yet neither he nor I have touched my cock. The images, the thought chains, arrive uninvited, the dare, the leer, the harlequin, fool and harlot. They dance and taunt, feeling the energies which give them life, ruddy in complexion, engorged, enthralled, enraptured, as we are, he and I when we are together.

We grunt in harmony, if ever such base sounds could be considered harmonic. We tear something, in haste, heedlessly when the pace gets faster, then something more. He sweats, no, we steam together, me onto the bed and floor, he, all over me.

We grunt together, animal like in both sound and movement, momentous while at the edge our urges wait. I have to stand, as nearly as I can, bent double yet straight legged, or as nearly straight as he can heave me. But I keep my arms straight, my hands upon the bed, rocking, rolling, as he fucks me.

We groan together and I recognise the timbre, ready myself for his final thrust. And when he orgasms I orgasm with him, hugely, in a jerking torrent of release so intense that, still joined, we fall in a heap.

I whisper a silly, girly name in his ear a little while after that. Unnecessary, I know but still part of the game. Then, feeling pretty much spent I roll onto my back and let him suck the last dregs of cum out of me.

……………..

He must have undressed me at some point though I don’t recall him doing so. We were lying so close together on the bed by then that all I could see was the ring in his left nipple and some hairs on his chest.

“How was it for you?” he asks, idiotically, eventually, so I grab his softness and bite it until he squeals.

“You know how it was” I tell him softly. “The same as it always is. Tremendous!”

Julian giggles girlishly as we snuggle.

“Treemendous!” he whispers into my ear.

“Yes!” I whisper back “Treemendous! Exactly that”

© Aahlu. Spring 2010.

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