Prelude to Passion

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Watched as They FinishPrelude to Passion

 

Malory.

I love how we play.

Being with you is like dancing in rain.

No matter how much I have, I always want more.

That’s how it’s been since we met — since I saw you sitting on the bench at Wayfarer’s, staring out at the blue sea, sketchpad in your lap, bottom lip getting nibbled between tiny teeth, green eyes searching for something, though even now three years later I’m not sure what.

I can’t stand not having you near me. It’s why I love working from home and would have it no other way.

I’m lucky to have what I do, most men don’t have nearly as much.

Still, with you I want more.

The boys are asleep as you tease me, twirling through daylight that spills through the blinds of our new home in San Rafael.

Jacob and Ash were both crying. I assumed you would go, and I would retreat to my office. You said, “No, I think you need me more” and gave me the smile that means I’ll be thinking of nothing but you until you’re out of my mind and I’ve made something sticky.

The boys cry in the background as you prance toward me. Your clothes must be puddled somewhere in the house. They’re not on you, at least nothing but your white cami and matching panties, see-through enough to show me where the glaze on your inner thighs got started.

You meet my mouth in the hallway. We kiss.

I love this so much, the most playful version of you. I circle my hands under your waist and pull you toward me, kissing your neck.

Your giggles encourage me, make me believe that this time might end like I want. We finish kissing, you drag me back into the bathroom away from their cries until it is nothing.

“Want a show?”

I ask if you’re the star.

“I better be!”

You giggle as you step backward into our shower. The bathroom is large, your favorite room in the house, it seems even more than the bedroom. It’s the room that sold you on our home in San Rafael, despite the cost I promised we could afford soon enough.

You turn on the water, still giggling. It spills on your body as your sexy face gets sexier, hungry but playful. You’re soaking, inside and out. I step into the shower with you.

You shake your head, still giggling a twitter that makes me need and want you in equal amounts, and push me from the shower.

“Remember, I said a show.”

Water continues to pour on your body. Your nipples pout against the fabric, blushing through white. I want to go back into the shower, push you to the tile, free my pipe-hard cock from my khakis and plunge it inside you, wet and warm from the shower and me.

You dip your hand in your panties and stir, a spoon in your soup, then toy with the elastic on either side, teasing it up and down your perfect thighs.

I throb harder as your eyes close and your head lulls back, right hand cupping your right breast, brushing nipple through fabric with your thumb.

You pet yourself harder, over your panties, then finally step out from the stream enough to encourage me. I pull you toward me, and feel a flutter of surrender as you collapse against my lips.

I take your kiss as if owed, I’ve missed it these last two minutes.

After tasting my want you push me away, then do what I don’t expect by peeling your panties to the side and showing me my true surprise: a pussy so freshly shaved, you must have done it this morning.

I’ve been asking you to shave your pussy bald for a year, ever since the twins were born. I said it might help you feel sexier, get your old you back. I suggested, hinted, teased, then finally asked, not daring to command, even if joking.

Nothing worked.

It had to be your idea.

I’m watching you rub your cunt, while picturing you knees to the floor with my cock in your mouth: I’m too hard for complaints.

Instead I watch as you rub yourself harder, digits starting far back before you drag them to the front to slip them in and out of your flexing hole.

You pull out your fingers and slip them into your mouth, tasting yourself as you smile, half purring and half panting.

You spread your pussy so I can see how pretty it is, bright-pink and wet, slick and shiny with its fresh shave, clearly wet from more than morning shower.

You pet yourself harder: tighter, rounder, longer circles, up and down and in and out, feeding my need with every dip of your fingers.

The shower continues to rain on your body. Your white top still hugs you like a lover, pushing nipples hard against fabric. Making me want them in my mouth.

You lean your head back against the shower wall, just to the side of the stream, chewing your bottom lip, enjoying yourself.

I wonder what you’re thinking, but don’t dare ask.

Or tell you what I want.

Doing so would unwrap a box of too many unknowns.

You are everything I want and more than I ever thought I would have. Our sex is amazing; you are raw current through my body. The best I’ve ever had. I want for nothing else, except more.

I feel something inside you holding back. An invisible wall between us that I don’t understand, there since the start and worse since the twins. It is a spice stripped from our recipe, a missing button, not enough cream to soften our coffee.

I know you love and want me. You’re the opposite of frigid, always on. But if you’re not in control, tension is high. I have no confidence that I can get what I want when I want it. You have to want it first. I think sometimes you see control as a four-letter word, at least if it comes from me. I see it as a locked door barring surrender.

I long to unlock it. 

Maybe it’s because men stare at your beautiful body and face wherever you go. Maybe you’re worried that if I issue commands it’s because I see you as an object. Maybe it’s something from your past.

Of that I’m most sure.

But I don’t know more than my instincts because you won’t tell me.

After the fights we’ve had in defense of your silence, I’m no longer willing to ask. There’s so much you’ve not told me about life before us. You showed up in San Rafael, sitting on the bench at Wayfarer’s as if hatched from an egg. All that matters is us, you insist. Everything before me was practice.

I wonder who you were while practicing, who you were with, if they were better than me, and if I’ll ever get to taste your earlier version.

You’ve found your rhythm, now it’s like I’m not here. The show is for me, but the pleasure for you. I unbutton my khakis, pull out my cock, then start stroking, quickly going faster as I slowly realize this is it. There will be no taking you hard from behind like I want to. This is a show, and I’m to enjoy it your way. If I’m a good boy — I always am — there will be seconds later, maybe thirds if the boys stay down for their nap.

You peel your panties past your ankles and leave them in a puddle, then lift your left leg and send your fingers back to dancing inside your tiny hole. Moans grow heavier, less for me and more for you. Circles are tighter and faster as you take two of your fingers (the pointer and middle) and slip them between your drenched lips.

You start plunging, muffling a scream.

I’m stroking faster. My cock thickens and throbs in the heat of my palm.

I’m hot, not just thinking of you now, but thinking about the ideal you I keep inside my mind. The you I know is there, waiting to emerge, eager for me to take her hand and lead her someplace better.

I want to scream out and tell you all the things I want, but like always am prisoner to my silence.

I wonder what’s wrong with me.

Why don’t I take you?

I hate my uncertainty.

Part of me thinks you’re daring me, and that all I need to do is stand up and take you. Part of me thinks that’s what you want. Part of me imagines your moans and growls and happy, little whimpers as I fuck you hard on my terms.

The rest of me is uncertain.

Instead of standing like a man I stay on the floor, milking my meat while you fuck yourself with fingers instead of my dick.

I have just seconds.

As you send yourself into the morning’s first orgasm I feel a jolt through my body. I go faster, picturing myself leaping to my feet at the final second so you can drop to your knees and take my load in your mouth.

I long to have you swallow every drop while fixing your eyes onto mine.

I’ve asked and I’ve begged.

But I won’t ask or beg anymore.

Follow the script. 

The second orgasm hits your body harder than the first. Your shoulders shake, and your body quivers as you slowly come down, brushing your slick pussy lips through the descent.

My cock is hungry, hurting for you. I should be on my feet, not on my ass. I should be inside you, plunging you into a third orgasm from behind before you’re finished with seconds.

Instead I do nothing, except slow my speed to keep goo inside me.

You fall on the floor, back to the tile, and plant your right hand on the wooden slats behind you. You part your legs like wings, and return all fingers to your pussy.

I love how you’re sitting. I love your spread legs and the swell of your belly. I love that you fuck yourself fast — almost furiously — for several seconds, before pulling your fingers from your sloppy hole and dropping them back into your teasing mouth, pursing your lips around your slick digits and making eyes at me.

Again, you dare me to take you.

And again, I sit and wonder why I don’t.

What’s the worst that can happen? 

My moment is now, here if I take it.

I’ll stand, pull you to your feet, slip my left arm under your waist, bend you over, and plunge my steel shaft inside you, filling you with throbbing dick for a few plunges before flooding you with cum.

You want it.

I know this.

Still, I am frozen, cock in hand.

The moment is gone so you take care of yourself.

Fingers jackhammer inside you, pounding you into a final orgasm that I could have — should have — given to you. Your fingers are no longer playful, thrusting strong and hard into your hole as it clenches around them, doing the work of my dick.

This is the you I want when teasing, the you I am sure lives just under the surface. The you I can smell and want more than anything.

“Oh, oh, oh … ”

Your eyes are closed, and I’m invisible.

My chance is gone.

Your pussy is so wet, the sloshing of fingers is now louder than the shower. My cock is throbbing so hard it sends an ache through my body. Yet, as you moan, crashing my need and want, I slow my stroking and doing nothing to sate it.

Now I’m imagining pulling out and drizzling cum on your ass: I don’t want to spill on my knuckles.

I want my spoo inside or on you.

More than anything, at least here in this moment, I want to cum in your mouth. This isn’t because it will feel better than your pussy, which is hot and wet and ready for my filling, but because it is a sign of the beautiful surrender I can’t seem to find between us.

I want to command you, as partner not property.

More than that, I want you to want me to do it.

I want you to feel safe on your knees.

I want your submission, and for you to see your yielding as honest. I want you to crave your own surrender like I do, on your knees with an open mouth, ready to do as I say, because you want to. Just like I want to do for you.

You fall from your high, breath still heavy, smiling as you finish.

You run your hands across your soaking top, squeezing your tits as you part your legs and show me the beautiful, bald pussy shaved for my pleasure.

You stand and invite me to stand with you.

I’m rock hard, still unrelieved.

You smile, still playful.

I’m so fucking stupid. 

The you I want was on display, it was my job to pull her from the window.

Our lips crash. I feel your smile behind the kiss.

My hand is still at my cock. You slap it away, wrap yours around it.

It takes no time — just one, two, three tugs, and I’m finished.

Warm cum spits from my tip and splashes up onto your stomach.

You giggle and lean into my ear. “Next time, just stand up and fuck me.”

the end.

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