You push in and up, slowly, patiently, and wait, rest a moment. God, I can't breathe. This is nearly torture, I'm dying for you to push again, breathless waiting and trying to anticipate it. You rock back and lunge again. I can feel my pulse in the tips of my fingers, thudding.
This is insane. I'm at the bottom of the stairs, watching you help me move; you're pushing the mattress up the stairs to a friend. But watching you push, and seeing your strong legs flex and bulge has my mouth dry. I see you squat and lift, raising the bed up the stairs, watching the back of your shorts skim over you. They're soft knit shorts, loose on your legs. I get flashes of your prim white-n'tighties under the dark grey shorts as you get a little further up the stairs. Those shorts are loose enough I could almost pants you without trying too hard, and if no one else was here, I might. Or better yet, I see, in my mind's eye, moving behind you on the stairs, running my hands softly up the your thighs, scratching very lightly and making all the hair on your legs stand on end when I nuzzle and breathe on the lock of your knee? But you're helping me move and there's a house full of people here. One of my friends sees me standing at the bottom of the stairs, and stands beside me to admire you, too. I am completely unabashed and open about it; she is much more discreet and is trying to hold up her end of a half-assed conversation, no pun intended. The visual inventory of you could go on, but we're starting to get obvious. We stop. Its noon and we are all sweaty and funky; a warm human smell. Its a happy vibe, like the house is glad to have people in it again. The biggest things are done, the bed, the dressers and couches. The big boxes are next, then smaller, an explosion of my things into the rooms, like a wild bloom of me inside the house. The bulk of the moving done, we begin to slow down and putter a little in whatever room we are in. The pizza, traditional moving food, is on the way, and the fridge was stocked last night with beer and ice water. I'm in the living room, unpacking medium sized stuff, and books. You walk past the living room and catch my eye and raise and eyebrow. I blush, duck my head and grin back at you. You knew what I was doing. You always do. I was ogling you and you could tell, or you guessed. Even if you hadn't guessed, I just gave myself away. There's a lot of water running. Our friends are beginning to congregate in the kitchen, milling around, washing up, getting ready for a break. My hands are busy and so is my mind. I'm daydreaming of you, my mind wandering to the bed that you just moved up the stairs. A flash of you, just as you move over me, the anticipation, I can feel you nose at me gently as you lean in to kiss me. When you push into me? God, ask any woman; nothing is as singularly wonderful as that first thrust when you're making love; and that it is still surprising, almost every time, is a surprise. Its almost better than coming, because you have all that's in between to look forward to. Its this feeling of opening, parting, literally feeling you move into me. I hold my breath with the awe of it. And you pause, give me a moment to luxuriate, to wallow in this deep intimate joining. You start with soft kisses, rubbing your lips against mine as you pull back? I shake myself out of my reverie and go to the kitchen. Time to take a break. I go into the kitchen and as you're washing your hands at the sink, I wrap my arms around you and rest my cheek on your back for a moment. Poor impulse control, I suppose. Sometimes you don't entirely understand my need to hug you or touch you. You think it comes at the weirdest times, like now, I bet; when we're both kind of grungy. Its an impulse, what can I say? I see you and I just want to be affectionate with you, so, sometimes I give in to it. You aren't entirely comfortable with public affection, so I try not to over-do it. That's where ogling you comes in handy. Its weird, men are supposed to be the ones who are "visually oriented" so much, not women. But I love to watch you. You have spare, strong movements, very deliberate. When I can, I watch you shave, with a towel around your waist. You shave unhurriedly, even when you are pressed for time. You have no idea the temptation that towel holds for me. I feel a little like a cat, completely fascinated by an otherwise ordinary object. Once you're out of the bathroom and done shaving, you're fair game, and so's the towel. Its silly, right? I mean, I know what you look like without any clothes on. I know what you look like in the fragile peace after an orgasm and what you look like asleep and relaxed. But to see you, the energy in every movement is just amazing. I don't think I've ever been this fascinated with anybody's body but yours. Your body language, too. When the door sticks or you can't get a CD case open, you back off, let go of it and stop trying for a second or two. It is that special care that big men, who have broken things by accident before, have. Whatever it is, let go of it, look at it, and try again. You are very conscious of your strength. Men's strength has always awed me, but you are something else. You have the strength of body to match your strength of character, and you are a force of nature. I've watched you use brute strength to move heavy objects that I would never have attempted; and you moved them with ease, not so much as a grunt. I watched you pick up a half-wild cat your family had adopted. He was a large tom and still had his claws. You picked him up with such gentleness, such tenderness, I could feel my eyes cloud up. You weren't just careful of the cat because he could hurt you if he panicked, you cared very much for the scrawny thing. You are always very careful with creatures smaller than yourself. The pizza never had a chance. We started grabbing boxes and opening them before the pizza guy had all the money. It wasn't a meal, it was a ravening. We didn't have a church-key, so you used your lighter to open the beers, the leverage trick. What is it about your hands that I like to watch you do that? With food in our stomachs, we really slowed down and eventually, people started to drift out with many thanks following them out the door. It is late, and we've had a lot of help from all involved. As the last of our help is gone, the music is still sounding throughout the house and I'm trying to finish just one room. I still want to get so many things done, the kitchen so its livable or at least that we have dishes, forks. Cups at least, so I have something to hand you when you start to drink milk straight out of the container. I'm so intent on getting the kitchen straight, that I don't hear you come in. You take the glasses out of my hands, set them on the counter and put your arms around me into a deep bearhug. You feel so good. You smell so good, damn, you've had a shower. I try to step back, I'm still all sweaty. You tell me its time to stop. You're right, its already dark and we've been at this a while. You suggest I go get clean. When I go through the bedroom to the shower, I see the bed set up, but unmade. Find the sheets, make the bed, I think, and stop, but you're right behind me, shooing me into the bathroom. I find the bathroom stocked with towels, shampoo and soap already. Its one of those detachable massager showerheads and it pounds on my back; the water sluices off me and takes the tension and the stress of the day with it. I breathe the steam deeply and as I relax, I can feel the fatigue set in. I knew about an hour ago that once I slowed down, I would fall down. I'm pretty close. I use the showerhead to rinse my hair and get all the soap off of me. I'm tempted to use it a bit more thoroughly, but I'm tired and I just want to crawl in bed with you. I come out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and clean, and find you making the bed, popping the flat sheet to settle on the bed and bending over to tuck in the ends. Another pair of loose shorts. I think I can find a way to cure this tiredness. I walk up behind you and run my fingers up the front of your thighs lightly, and then a ways under your shorts. You wicked thing, I say, you're not wearing any underwear under there. You hold still and let me tease you a little, and then you turn to me and look me up and down with my towel turbanned on my hair and a bathsheet tucked around me. I put my hands on my hips. That was a distinct twinkle I saw. And you are? you ask. I draw myself up with great dignity, or as much dignity as one can summon in a towel. That is NOT the point, I reply. You hook two of your right-hand fingers in the bathsheet, between my breasts and loosen the towel a little by wiggling your fingers back and forth and tugging out. Oh? you ask, Really? Big twinkle. The towel is looser and going to drop in a minute. You tug me to you the last little bit and the towel is only being held up by your hand. I put my arms up around your neck and kiss you a few times. You put your left arm around behind me, pull the towel across me with your right hand and hold it between us, like a sheet on a line. Very big twinkle. You pull the towel back and forth across the front of me. My skin is warm and sensitive under the slightly rough towel. You take the ends of the towel in your hands so they've covered in toweling and run them up my arms, still around your neck, drying them. Then you run them down my back and across my bottom. You turn me around with my back to you, and we're facing the dresser mirror. I can see the two of us, like we're two other people across the room. I lean my head back against your shoulder and watch you dry me off, using the texture of the terrycloth to great advantage. I rest my hands on top of yours as they move over me. Not guiding, just following. You nuzzle into the crook of my neck, finding that spot I love to be found. I've got goosebumps, but I am not cold. I see your arms moving around me, twice the size of my own, encircling my ribcage, moving over me. You lift my breasts in your hands and rub the towel across my nipples until I squirm a little. Then, you move on to my rib cage and stomach. Its not quite a tickle, definitely a tease. Slow, circular patterns that brush over me. I brace my feet apart a little, my knees are getting wobbly. This is the most fun I've had getting dry since you chased me around the bathroom with the blow dryer. You squat behind me and now I can't see you in the mirror. You give me a quick kiss in the small of my back and then rest your head against the outside of my hip. You're running the your towel-covered hands over the fronts of my thighs, the inside of my knees and upwards. When you brush your hands against my mons, its just barely enough to feel. Almost a ghost of a touch. You repeat the brushing, up the insides of my thighs, stopping just short, and then softly tickling across my mons. Its like you're drawing the blood up my legs to pool between them. And you call me a tease. I need to touch you, my palms ache to feel you. I put my hand under your hair and cup the back of your head. I lift a little, and whisper come here. You sit on the end of the bed, with me standing between your knees, facing you. You rest your cheek against me and I cradle your head against me. You hold the backs of my thighs in your hands, very slightly moving them up and down. Your hands are hot, and the towel is forgotten. You are rubbing your nose against my ribcage, nuzzling up under my breast to that sensitive skin. I get the shivers and goosebumps. You rub your lips against my nipple and very lightly run your teeth against me. And you start? There's this thing you do, you alternate sucking, blowing on me and something else, I think its with your tongue when your trap me gently between your teeth. I can't quite tell exactly what you're doing, because I can't think when you do it. When you suck with increasing intensity, I can feel it shoot a clear lightning fire through me. I tug at your tee shirt, pulling up when I can. It takes a second to clear my head as you move from one breast to the other. If I'm going to get this shirt off you, I have to do it before you start again, because my concentration is nearly shot. You lift your arms and help me. I am greedy, I run my fingers and then my hands over your shoulders and neck and down your back, lightly at first and then with a little more pressure. If I do it too lightly, I'll tickle you. A tickle battle is fun, but not tonight. I can feel your muscles shift under your skin when you move your arms or your head. I love the feel of you under my hands. I still look at you and wonder that you are mine to touch as I wont, and I want to. I indulge myself when I can. Sometimes I feel like I took the biggest Kewpie doll home from the fair. I read a lot of erotica on line, most of it is pretty rough. You know, a lot of vowels strung out and nobody can spell "come" properly. But every once in a while you find a gem. One was a woman writer, who described a man with a phrase I wish I could claim as my own, because it describes you. "He had the kind of skin that made your mouth water to taste it?" Wow. I see you when you wear a tank, and the cap of your shoulder, so soft and smooth, the skin covering this large muscle, I want to rub my nose against it, the my lips, and press my mouth to it. And the one that gets me, when you put your arms behind you head, the even paler underside of your biceps, that tender-soft skin? I could practically bite you there. I push you back on the bed, your arms taking me with you so that I'm leaning over you. My head's clearing a bit as I ask you to scoot up on the bed. I'm kneeling over you and kissing your face and chest as you move further up on the bed. The sheets smell fresh; I realize you'd put them in to wash while I was so caught up in the kitchen. Your hands are busy, skimming me, giving me waves of shivers. My breasts are hanging over your chest, brushing against you. You tickle my sides a little, raising your hands up my ribs to cup my breasts as we kiss. I slide down you, kissing you as I go. You take the towel off my hair, and the ropy damp strands are still warm and shocking against your skin as you spread it out on your chest. I kiss your hollowing stomach and tease your navel with my nose and my tongue, not enough to tickle for real. Your shorts are tented and I put my face to one of your legs and exhale hot air into them. You wriggle. Oh, that was fun. I breathe up the other leg; even better. I shouldn't do this too many times. I run my hands up each of the legs of your shorts and lift the waistband away from you from the inside. The invasion of cool air after such warmth makes you tense a little. I slide the shorts down to your knees, trapping them for a moment. I kiss the spots on your hip bones, a sweet small patch of naked skin, not even a sprinkle of hair there. As my hair brushes over you, you draw breath a little. I plant a kiss on the tip of you, a kiss of affection, and a quick fillip of tongue, a taste, and I take your shorts off your legs. Your legs, you have hard strong thighs and calves that taper down to almost delicate feet that I hold in my hands for a moment, my palms against the soles of your feet. I've been watching your legs all day. You don't think about walking, but when you're wearing shorts, I think about you walking. I want to look at you naked for a moment. You are beautiful. I might look at you with my eyes, but I see you with my heart. You sit up a little, reach for me, your eyes clouded and wanting, looking almost like an ache. I know that look, you take me there, where want becomes need, and its not the what, but the who. Knowing I can arouse you that much is a turn-on in and of itself. I lean down, place a wet kiss in the arch of your left foot and let it reverberate up your leg. Before you finish reacting, I lick from the base of your big toe to the tip and then engulf your toe in my mouth. You move restlessly on the bed. I climb back on the bed, over you on my hands and knees, slowly. You meet me in a kiss. I move back and downward slightly, wetting you and then raising. When I move to do it again, with my heat against you after the cooling air, you roll me. You hook one leg over my calf, pinning it, push with your hips and hold me in the crook of my other knee, easing me down on my back. You're over me and you are all I see. You tease me with no hands, nudging at me, rocking your hips forward enough to make contact and backing away. You are a far worse, and far more dedicated tease than I. Just when I think I can't take one more touch, you move into me, slowly. I freeze, like a kitten being carried by the nape of the neck. I don't think I could even breathe. For a few seconds, I think, neither of us moves, but looks each other in the eye. You kiss me and I can tell you're as close as I am. Your arms are trembling a little. You're holding on better than I am; I feel like I'm trembling all over. You make small movements at first, making room for yourself, then a firm thrust and a gentle withdrawal. You catch my mouth with yours and kiss me the same way. Its like music I've heard, the tempo increases but the rhythm is the same. Several shallow, only half-way, and then deep until we're sealed against one another. I bury my face in the crook of your neck as I tip over the edge, a cascade of sensations that starts where we're joined and ripples outward. I feel myself flutter, starting deep inside, against you, and I'm carried on a series of waves that arch my back. When I come back to myself, slowly, as though I am floating on my back in water, my arms are around your shoulders and you are looking down at me, almost not seeing me. You stilled yourself for a moment, and then you begin to move again. And, oh, how you move me. BACK to the Decadence of Rome