Stories in the Attic - Chapter Twelve

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She set the bag of groceries on the counter and pause. A bead of perspiration ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away. Grabbing the milk and ice cream out of the bag, she opened the refrigerator and deposited the items before they could melt or warm. She grabbed a cold Coke before she shut the door. Leaning against the counter, she rubbed the cold can across her brow. The heat outside was almost unbearable, and she wondered where he was. No doubt, he was asleep in the air conditioned comfort of the bedroom. Ignoring the rest of the groceries, she wandered through the house to the bedroom.

Empty.

She frowned. Surely, he wasn't outside working in the heat. Stepping to the window, she looked out. He was there. Stretched out in the hammock in his swimming suit, he looked sound asleep. She studied him a moment, noting his tan skin, his muscles that seemed firm even in sleep. His skin glistened with perspiration, his mouth slightly open. Asleep. She didn't often see him asleep. He stayed up later, rose earlier, attended to her as she slept. Even now, had he heard her return, he would have been in the kitchen helping with the groceries. But he was asleep, as peaceful as she had ever found him.

Smiling, she stripped naked, grabbed an oversized T-shirt and slipped it on. She felt cooler already. She snatched up a bottle of scented oil and left the room.

He snored softly. Pausing by the hammock, she watched. His chest, a nice, not-too-hairy chest, rose and fell rhythmically. The peace of his sleep mimicked the quiet on the lake beyond the hammock. The mirror-like water reflected the sky and trees, unruffled by breeze or boat. A sheen of perspiration ran across her upper lip, but she didn't mind. He looked so at peace with his world, so fetching. She was almost reluctant to touch him...almost.

Squeezing oil into her palm, she touched his ankle. He woke immediately as she knew he would.

"Relax," she told him. "Let me do this."

"You don't have to," he answered.

"I want to," she replied.

"But--"

"Shhhhh," she admonished. "Relax. Close her eyes and feel."

She glanced at his face, and his eyes closed, a smile telling her how pleased he was. She massaged his ankle, slowly, carefully, feeling the bones and skin. She loved his skin, soft and supple. Squeezing oil on his leg, she kneaded his calf and rubbed his shin. Her hands felt slick with oil, and his skin glowed. She moved over his knee and onto this thigh, a muscular thigh. She could feel the separate muscles of his thigh, the results of his running. More oil, more slick skin, her hands and fingers learned his body afresh. Snaking her hands underneath his suit, she massaged up to the crease between leg and hip, her fingertips just brushing his hair. She resisted the urge to grab him and removed her hands.

With patience, she started on the other leg. Ankle, shin, knee, thigh, until his leg shone in the light. She was reminded of a commercial for suntan lotion, perfect men with perfectly tan skin. For a moment, she studied his legs, such strong legs. She loved his strength, his leanness. When he carried her, she felt the power in his legs.

She wiped her brow with her sleeve and dumped oil into her hands. Starting with his right hand, she massaged each finger, palm and wrist. His forearms were oversized, the result of years of golf. She traced her fingers along the veins pushing against his skin, ridges of blood. His upper arms were hard and strong, no loose skin. She kneaded those muscles, those wonderful arms. When he made love to her, she often held onto his arms as he perched above her. Often, she ran her fingers over those muscles, trying to memorize them. Now, she soothed in the oil which seemed to add definition to his strength. First one arm, then other. His shoulders were lean and bony, and she swirled on the oil. Then, she began on his chest.

His chest was unique. Besides the muscles, he had a strange breast bone with a small, shallow indent where she liked to place her finger. Now, she rubbed oil into the indent and over those muscles. The little hair he had sparkled with oil. His nipples shined. She wanted to bite those nipples, but she restrained herself Instead, she spread oil on his stomach, such a flat stomach. He looked like a teenager in some ways. His stomach was flat and firm.

With a speed that surprised her, she jerked down his swim trunks. She thought he might protest, but he didn't. His trust in her was complete. His desire for her was evident. She squirted oil into her hands and gently stroked him, newly amazed by his body, his passion. He came alive in her hand, swelling, and hardening. She used more oil, letting it run down the length of his shaft, a small river of shiny fluid. She watched it pool for a moment at the base and then spill over his sack, trickling down in several directions at once. The sight fascinated her. With a tenderness she had never felt before she slowly, carefully massaged his sack, spreading the oil all over, turning him slick and bright. She stroked, her oily hand gliding easily over his oily shaft. The feeling was exquisite, a frictionless handling of the man she loved. Using her thumb she rubbed oil over the tip, seeing it gather in the small hole, pushing it out with her thumb, studying the shaft in ways she had never experienced before. It seemed so normal. How did he manage to give her such pleasure? She stroked and rubbed and felt something run down her thigh.

Sweat?

No, not sweat. She was surprised. She hadn't realized how aroused she had become. She noticed her nipples poking against her shirt. The juice on her thigh heightened her need. Exercising care, she climbed onto the hammock. Lifting her shirt, she mounted his oil slick shaft which slipped inside without the slightest hesitation.

"Oh," he said.

"Shhhh," she answered. "Don't talk."

The oily shaft wormed deep inside her. Her need grew with every small stroke. She let her inner self explore him in ways she had never thought possible, as if the oil created some kind of bond that fed new sensations to her nerves. Every vein, every ridge, every wrinkle in his skin fed her desire. Her body felt every nuance of him. She had never felt so utterly filled and molded to anything. She didn't think air could slip past the bond of them.

Perspiration ran down her cheek. She saw sweat on his forehead, his hair wet. The smell of the oil inflamed her passion. Her body squeezed. She wanted him. She wanted him quickly, forcefully, before the oil melted into skin and the bond broke. With a purpose she had never thought possible, she thrust herself on him. Heat and sweat and oil rushed to complete the act. She felt she had no time for anything but the rush of orgasm. She wanted his orgasm. She wanted his shaft to shudder inside her, feeding her. She grabbed his arms and squeezed, her body clamping. Now, she thought to herself. Do me now.

His grunt marked his orgasm. Her body squeezed. That oily, hard thing inside her spasmed, shooting heat into her. She closed her eyes and feasted on the feeling. Oily hands on oily arms. Oily shaft encased inside her. Seconds passed. He panted beneath her. She slowly collapsed on top of him. She kissed him and lay atop him. She wouldn't release him, not yet. In time.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome," she said.

His arms wrapped around her. The heat would soon be unbearable, but for the moment, she wanted to lay on him, feel him inside. Soon, they would retire to the air conditioning and a shower and then...

She licked his neck, tasting the salt of his body. Then, he would massage her.

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The car moves swiftly through the night, twin headlamps carving cones of light in the dark. The faint light from the dash washes over your pretty face, highlighting the beauty. The highway is practically deserted. You are alone in the night, driving, pushing. No, not alone. He's with you, he's always with you. You can see his handsome face, his dark eyes, his strong arms and shoulders. He's never far from your thoughts. If you closed your eyes, you would see him clearly, his smiling face, his happy face. But you don't dare close your eyes. You have miles to go before you meet him--or do you?

You glance right and you can see his outline, how he sits and watches you as you drive. You like the way he watches. You can see the love in his eyes, the desire. You know this man will never ignore you, never turn away, never grow tired of you. Even on this dark, deserted highway you can see him, feel him. It's as if his spirit has been transported to your car to help you home. You can see him asleep on the couch, a slight smile on his face, but his essence, his spirit rides shotgun with you. Yes, he's there. You smell him, the scent of him that you like so well. God, what a smell! Goose bumps ripple up your arms. You love that smell.

He doesn't speak, but you can feel him edge closer to you. He leans across the console and lays a hand on your leg. His hand is warm, his fingers firm on your thigh. You know your skin excites him; it always does. You feel his fingers massage your thigh, wringing pleasure from touching you. You have felt him a hundred times before, and every time is as potent as the first, those fingers touching, kneading. Your lower lip quivers slightly. You regrip the steering wheel. His touch is tantalizing and stimulating, and you sink a little deeper into the seat. With practiced ease, you engage the cruise control. The car powers through the night on its own, a tamed beast.

To your right, you see him smile. You feel his hand crawl up your thigh and under your skirt. The fingers know your skin, your muscles. The hand sends a rush of heat through you, and you know you've begun to respond. You feel yourself grow moist. You pray his fingers will soon find you and love you. You don't wait long. His hand finds your panties and grooves them into you, soaking up your own hot juices. You shudder with barely restrained emotion. You want him so much.

As his fingers move up and own across you, you spread your legs. You want him to take you quickly, but he knows how to make you last and love. You sip breath through pursed lips. His fingers pull aside your panties and slip along your wetness. Your body thrusts spasmodically against his touch. Your body wants to drink his fingers, absorb those wonderful feelings.

His fingers do find you and sink into you, touching the places that he knows so well. You move against him, wanting his touch to fill you. Your body grips and regrips his fingers, pulling them inside, loving them. Your breath comes in gasps. His fingers begin to move with speed and strength. You thrust against him, but his fingers do the work. Rubbing, touching, stroking. You grab his biceps and squeeze, and his fingers rush inside you, faster and harder.

"Faster," you whisper, and his fingers oblige.

Your body soaks his hand, running over him. You feel your orgasm rushing forward like some huge truck roaring unchecked down a steep mountain. His fingers work at fever pitch, and you know the leviathan is unstoppable. It gathers speed and power.

"Don't stop," you whisper.

He doesn't. His hand doubles its pace, and the truck is close now, rumbling through the night, tearing through the air. Your body clamps and gushes. The truck horn blares. You have arrived as your body spasms against his fingers. For some part of a mile your body locks on him and pleases itself.

Then, the rush stops. Your body relaxes. You unclamp, and his fingers withdraw. But your body is soaked, and the skirt beneath you is soaked. But you don't care. He came to you, and he loved you, and the remaining miles will be short. When you reach him, he will know he's pleased you. Yet, he'll be ready to please you again, and that is what you wish. Another chance at happiness.

The car slices through the night. You sigh. He knew you needed him, and he came to you. You're happy.

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