A Sexy Story for a Rainy Afternoon

This is a story I wrote a few years ago. Like much of my writing, it is based on a real incident in my life.

I hope to write and publish more stories very soon. Maybe you all can give me some ideas.

I had that dream again, the one where nobody is sick and nobody dies and everything was all just a big mistake. Turns out, he was just off on business, promoting one of his bands or looking for new talent, but he’s back now and looking at me the way he always did when I over reacted. “But, we thought you were dead. We had the funeral and everything,” I say, amazed and relieved at this turn of events.

“Sweetie, I was just in Minneapolis. You get way too worried.” Austin tries to look exasperated, but his face breaks into a smile. “You worry way too much,” he says again, folding me into his arms. I burry my face in his thick, curly black hair, (the way it was before the chemo) and melt against him. Austin’s strong arms cross my back, pulling me in tight to his chest. Just then, the phone rings. It is the wedding planner, calling to find out why I haven’t picked up my dress or to get the final count for the guest list.

I reach out to grab the phone, but I must have been too slow. There is a loud Click! And then a dead silence. I mumble and drop the handset back onto the night table, and roll over to look at the man in my bed.

Brad is tall, tan, blond, with that surfer look about him. I met him about a year after the funeral, while I was out walking Austin’s dog Ruby. He is a fireman at the firehouse down the street. I picked him up and brought him home for the same reason I went home with Austin a few years before: I was tired of sleeping alone. Tired of waking up celibate as a nun in my acre of water-bed. Tired of watching TV and eating spaghetti-o’s on Saturday nights. And most of all, I was tired of pacing the floors alone until exhaustion overtook me, trying to avoid the dreams. I chose him, in particular, because he was not looking for a commitment, and because he seemed to be the exact opposite of Austin in every way, except for those muscular arms. I have always been a sucker for men with strong arms.

The first time Brad spent the night, however, I found out his staid, stoic patience was one more thing he had in common with my lost Austin. When I woke screaming from a nightmare just hours after having been relieved of my year-long celibacy, Brad just took me in his arms. “There, there” he said, stroking my hair and rocking me in his lap, there in the middle of my big bed. His gentle kindness reduced me to a mass of weeping jello, and he held me until I collapsed back into sleep. Turns out he had had his own bouts with nightmares, early in his career, and knew one when he saw it. I has thus far refused his offer to “tell me all about it, if you want to” and settled for the simple comfort of his warm body. As often as not, when sleep eluded me, I chased away my demons by reaching out for Brad’s cock, small and quiet and still sticky from our earlier lovemaking, and caressing it until it swelled hard and strong. The extra effort to wake the drowsy giant distracted me, and the waves of orgasms that rewarded my effort carried me off to a land of dreamless sleep.

Right now, Brad is sitting up in bed, giving me a knowing look. “You had that dream again, Babe, didn’t you? Are you ever going to tell me about it?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I say, pulling the covers up over my head and heading south with all the determination of a heat-seeking missile. That is what I usually say. We both know I have no intention of it.

* * *

Brad stays over on his way to and from work. We have fallen into a comfortable routine, not exactly romantic, but easy. Friends with benefits, rebound lovers. The sex is adequate, bland but plentiful. It’s meatloaf-and-mashed-potatoes sex, physical comfort food. We get along well; we like the same sorts of things, like books and the White Sox and obscure German beers. In 6 months we have never had an argument, because nothing is that important it’s worth yelling about. We have also never had that relationship talk, because it’s not that kind of relationship.

He is off today, but works tomorrow, which means he is at my place again for supper. And more sex. I have spent the day trying to avoid thinking of Austin, without much luck. Every time I have to write the date in a patient’s file, or glance at a calendar, or have someone ask me what date it is, I want to cry. Today would have been my wedding.

I tell Brad I am not up for going out, and we order Chinese food to eat in front of the TV. I loose myself in the Sopranos and Sex & the City, and try not to think too much. Brad, sensing my off mood, tells me he is going to lie down in the bedroom and read his book. I nod, without looking up. Three cups of strong herbal tea later, my eyelids are drooping and there is nothing to watch but infomercials. I drag myself into the bedroom, peel off my clothes and climb into bed. Brad has already conked out, the book resting on his face. As I reach across him to turn out the light, his eyes flicker open and he blinks at me as if he has never seen me before, or at least not for a very long time.

“Hi, sweetie,” he says to me. I am startled to hear that particular endearment, but say nothing. Brad has never called me that before. He reaches up and touches my face, tracing my cheeks and lips with his fingers. He runs his fingers through my hair, brushing it out of my eyes. “Just let me look at you.” He gently cups the back of my head in his hand and rolls us both over, setting me gently on the bed as he looks down into my eyes. He buries his face in my shoulder and begins gently kissing my neck. “I want to kiss you all over,” he says. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” Gently, he kisses his way down my body, hitting all the little secret spots that have been ignored for so long. He flicks his tongue into the little hollow under my clavicle, sending shivers down my body. Licks the ticklish spot behind my ear, making me squirm in anticipation. I gasp as he runs his fingers lightly down my sides, brushing them over the tops of my hip bones and tracing the edge of the bone down across my belly to my mound. His lips follow his fingers everywhere they go, trailing over my skin, leaving a path of moist kisses in their wake.

He slips first one finger, the two, into my pussy and starts to massage that spongy walnut-sized bit of flesh just inside. His other arm wraps around my back, and as he holds me close I see stars. A g-spot orgasm shoots through my body like lightning, all the more potent because it has been so long since the last time.

He never breaks contact with my body as he slips up next to me and replaces his fingers with his cock. He covers my belly, breasts and face with more soft kisses. He cradles my head in his hands as he slides his cock deep inside me. The physical sensation is intense as his cock touches all the long forgotten places inside me. Even more overwhelming, his touch stirs up emotions long hidden, as if my body remembers things my mind refuses to recall. The years of grief, of ache, of barely-maintained self control slip away. For the moment at least, I am back in the past, in those days I have been dreaming about. Nobody is sick, nobody is gone. It’s just him and me, forever, unending. Him and me, together. Nothing has ever felt more right.

His cock probes me deeply, thrusting up to that little secret spot deep inside that I never told anyone about, that used to be just our little secret. HE puts my ankles up against his shoulders, nuzzles my toes as he is thrusting inside me. There is such an expression of contentment and wonder on his face, as if sex with me is the greatest thing that ever happened to him. His hands trace the backs of my legs, resting on those nervy and sensitive areas at the backs of my knees. Chills run through me as he traces this fingers from my heels to my ass, then cups my cheeks in his hands and raises my hips up to meet him. His biceps bulge with the effort of supporting my weight, and then he wraps his forearms around my thighs and presses my legs to his chest. For a moment, he cocks his head, rests his cheek on the sole of my foot, and just stops moving all together. Our eyes met. For a second my mind sees brown eyes and thick curly black hair, and I think my heart will break. Just as I catch my breath, he begins to thrust again, and the orgasm that comes from it takes me by surprise. My body arcs back until I am suspended between my shoulders and his arms and his cock. He holds me tight against him, drilling with his cock, making sure I can’t wriggle away from him before the ecstasy subsids.

The lovemaking seems to last forever, as if I am suspended in time. We change positions a few more times, drawing energy from each other. Now we are sitting on the middle of the bed, facing each other, our legs and arms intertwined. I rock back and forth on his shaft, squeezing and drawing him deeper into me. Now I am on all fours, and his strong arms pull me back onto him, burying his manhood deep inside me. At last, he is lying on the bed, and I am riding him. My fingers work my clit as his hands cup my breasts. I lower myself down to him, giving him the nipples to taste. I grind back and forth and sideways and in circles on his cock, once again feeling that long-forgotten touch in those secret spots. This time when the orgasm takes me, he is caught up in it too, and I feel his shaft begin to pulse. When he comes, the warm rush of it sends me into another dizzying zenith. Every muscle in my body contracts around him, as if I would hold on to him, hold him deep within my body, and never let go.

In the end, I lie in his arms, spent. My cheek rests on his chest; one of his arms is draped loosely around me. He nuzzles my hair, twists a few strands between his fingers. A moment after he lifts my chin and gently kisses my lips, I am gone. I snuggle down against him and slide into a deep, deep sleep.

* * *

I had that dream again. Only this time, Austin is getting ready to leave again. His suitcase is open on the bed, and he is stuffing it with black jeans and chambray shirts and the silly ties I used to buy him. I am crying and begging him not to go; if he does it will only result in another funeral, more heartache, more sorrow. He stops packing and looks at me, cupping my chin with his hand. “Look,” he says, with the air of someone who has repeated a lesson to a child a thousand times, “I will never leave you. You are my wife and I will always come back. I will always be with you.”

“No!” I cry . “You just came back. You were gone for so long, please don’t go again.” I start to weep uncontrollably. The dog, Ruby, pushes her wet nose into my hand, and someone behind me is shaking me gently, trying to get my attention. “Hey, babe, is it that dream again? You were crying so loud you even scared the dog.” Brad looks concerned, peers into my face in the near darkness as if he might learn something from my expression. “You know, you really should talk about it. It can’t be good to keep it all bottled up like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling into a ball and sniffling. “You might be right. Sorry to keep waking you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been there, remember. Speaking of dreams, I had the strangest one tonight. You were in it . . . . .”