Tomorrow  

RockyHardun 50M
0 posts
9/6/2005 8:16 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Tomorrow


Baby, you ready?"
So ready. I've been waiting for this call, dressed in my short purple silk negligee, my hair rustling in lustrous curls past my shoulders, my skin still warm and buffed from a day on the beach. I've been in bed with a fashion magazine open before me -- not reading, not even looking at the pictures of silky, feline women -- just turning the pages and waiting.
"Michelle..." Rocky continues, "Take your panties down, take them down to your ankles and bend over on the bed."
I do it without thinking, ignoring the voice in my head that taunts me, he’s not here, not really, you can just pretend. That's a lie. I do it because he is here, throwing me forward on the bed and bending on his knees to eat me from behind -- thrusting his pink tongue between my tan thighs and drinking from the split of my body. He is here with me, commanding me to spread my legs wider, to bend over further, and I do it, hands clutching the phone, breathing ragged, heartbeat exploding in my ears.
"Turn over," He orders, and I'm with him, his hands gripping into my waist, lifting me off the bed with each forward drive of his hips, each thrust impaling me with his cock. "That's the girl," He says, his voice urgent, "Oh, how beautiful you are." his fingers trail along my belly, up to my breasts, cupping them, teasing my nipples, just brushing the tips. He anchors me with his body, the weight of his body on top of mine and He leans forward to kiss me, slow and long, his skin warm on my own, his lips smooth and dry. We're so close together that I feel his heartbeat link with my own. It's like music, the way we move, the rhythm of the dance. It's like fire, the glow in his eyes, the heat of his skin.
It's like he's here with me.
"C'mon, Michelle, kiss me, darling."
My head tilts against the cool smooth cotton of my pillow, my lips part, as if I am kissing a demon lover, a phantom, an incubus. My body rocks beneath his, invisible, unreal, and then the currents work through me.
I can picture him in my mind, his long hair, hanging down around his shoulders, his eyes shut tight, his mouth is tense, canine teeth biting into his bottom lip, the urgency creasing his sculptured face. He arches his head back as He moans aloud -- the image of ecstasy. I bask in the sublime look that crosses his face as He reaches the climax. I own that look.
"Darling," Rocky sighs, his breathing gone dark and heavy. "That was amazing."
"Yes..."
"Call me tomorrow..." He whispers, no talk of his day -- of mine -- of the distance that separates us.
"Yes," another sigh, filled with satisfaction. "Yes, Rocky. Tomorrow," and I roll over and set the phone quietly into place on the bedside table. Cutting the cord.
For that is the bane of a long-distance lover, the knowing that three weeks have passed since I saw him last, and three more will come and go before I see him again.
###
Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow. And now it's two weeks until I see him, two weeks until I climb on the plane and fly from Dallas to Orlando. We are having a Fall like no other, 86 degrees, too hot to wear jeans, too hot to wear anything but gauzy, summer-print dresses that skim my hips and thighs, and flit and flirt when I walk.
Too hot to make love? Never.
"The kitchen," I say when it's my turn to call. "On the counter-top."
"The cool tile," He says back, and I know he's with me. "You can watch your reflection in the windows behind me."
I can see it, my brown eyes glimmering in the light from the city, while all the lights in the apartment are out. I can feel his arms, the heat in them, the shift and slide of the muscles beneath his skin. He is holding me tight, and my legs are wrapped just as firmly around his waist. I've got his cock inside me, and he drives it in and out and hard, hard, my fingers digging into his arms, my teeth on the ridge of his shoulder, biting to stifle the scream. He fucks me without a break, like a machine, like a wonderful fucking machine, our parts well-oiled, interlocking, caught in a groove with one destination in sight.
He lifts his hands to the back of my head, cradling me, losing his fingers in the brown curls of my hair. his kiss is like water, sliding, cool. his kiss is like the ocean, like I've brought the ocean with me. his full, mouth on mine is like a dream that makes me sorry to wake up.
His kiss is like he's with me.
And, in a way, He is.
"Watch us," Rocky says, "Watch the way we move." I peer at our reflection, the white tile floor beneath his bare feet, the white counter beneath my ass -- the reflection of our bodies moving, working, shimmering in the mirror-window.
"You're perfect," I tell him, "Just like that. Keep it going, now. Just like that."
In and out and HARD. Can you feel it? Hard, like a piston, well-oiled, moving up and down, sliding in-out. Too good. Too right. I can taste it, oh, god, I can taste it, my hips sliding on the counter, my body working against his, my hips snapping against his, too good, too right... "Ohhhh!" It's a shriek, louder than I expected, louder than I planned, "Ohhh, my sweet..." and He echoes it back to me, calling out my name, "Michelle!" as we come together, 3000 miles apart, as we come together and explode.
"Tomorrow," I tell him.
"Tomorrow," He promises.
###
And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
It's a week until I see him, and my suitcase is already on the floor, silk skirts and velvet dresses, high heels, jeans and leather boots. My jacket is back from the cleaners, hanging in plastic from the hook on my door. My lingerie is new, packed in its little compartment, ribbons and lace and fancy things to make him moan. My hair is longer, I think, and it looks different than before, the bangs hanging low over my forehead, the rest a tousled mane that falls past my shoulder blades. I inspect myself as I hope He will -- as I know He will -- turning in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the lines in my calves, the tone of my thighs, the sleek curves of my waist and breasts.
I imagine his hands on me, his fingers exploring, parting, dipping. I imagine myself through his eyes, and I feel a longing steal over me that is impossible to shake. I lie down on the bed, holding the phone to my chest, wanting to call -- but it's too early -- wanting his voice to wrap me up and carry me to him.
I press the buttons slowly, the glowing green buttons that mock me somehow, and He answers immediately.
"I want," I start, "Rocky, I want..."
"Slower, this time," He says, his voice a lesson in control. "Slower, baby, don't rush it."
"Slower," I breathe back to him, "Okay, all right." Steady now, my fingers probing, steady now, through the soft curtain of my dress. But I can't. "On the floor," I order, my voice strong, my passion winning. "On the floor, Rocky."
And I hear the laugh in his voice, the surprise in his voice, as He says. "Yes, all right. The living room floor."
"I'm on top."
He knows it.
"I'm on top and I'm holding you down."
Oh, yes. He knows it. My hands flat against his shoulders, pinning him to the plush carpet, my knees spread wide at his hips, my body in charge, my will in charge. Faster, I need it faster, and I'm controlling the speed, I'm running this machine.
He arches his hips to help me, to give me some leverage. his hands find my waist and He keeps me steady, keeps that steady, raging beat. his cock is a part of me, the hard, throbbing rod a part of my body. I never release it entirely. I hold it within me and ride it, squeezing it, the contractions running through my body into him, tight and hard, release, tight and hard, release, his breathing sounds like sobbing to me, his face is flushed with the effort of it, the effort to hold back. He can't, though, because I'm in charge and I don't want him to hold back.
I work him harder, watching his face change. his hair matted, his cheeks are covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He's biting his bottom lip as He always done before He comes, and he's moaning, repeating, like a mantra, over and over, "Yes, baby, yes, baby, yes..."
I feel it happen inside me, the change inside me, and his fingers dig deeper into my waist, needing to capture me, to hold me to him. I go forward against him, onto his chest, never stopping the pounding rhythm of my hips, faster than ever, faster than anything. He lifts me forward with his hips and we're slamming into each other, slamming like two trains meeting, the crash reverberating through both of our bodies. The crash and then the aftermath of the sparks and fires that shoot through us, every nerve ending tingling, every fiber burning.
He closes his eyes and wraps me in his arms. He holds me to his beating heart and wraps me in his arms. his voice caresses me, his fingertips soothe me. And it's as if he's here, with me, and not 1500 miles away.
"Tomorrow," He says, the catch still in his voice.
"Tomorrow," I sigh.
###
And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
The plane lands at 11:16. I'm the first one up, the first pushy passenger to the door, and the flight attendant gives me a little "school teacher" frown, as if I should be made to sit down until everyone else has left. But we're grownups here, aren't we? And He can only glower at me while I slide past his with my carry-on suitcase and fly up the enclosed hallway to the gate.
He's right at the front of the greeters. And He has a placard that says, "Michelle Womack" in bold black pen and "I Love You" beneath it in red. He's wearing his work clothes, Dockers and a button down shirt, and he's holding a bouquet of red roses. I'm in his arms before they're fully open to me, snuggling against his chest and bear-hugging him.
"Luggage?" He asks.
"This is it... I didn't want to wait."
He grins and takes my hand, leading me to the car park, kissing me while we walk. "Missed you," He sighs, stopping us again and staring into my face. "Missed you so much, Michelle."
My eyes are wide open, seeing him, and yet I can't really see him. I need to touch him, need the feel of his skin beneath my hands. And I grab his arm and pull his forward. "Rocky," I say, "I want..."
He drives too fast to get me home. He takes all the shortcuts, weaving in and out of traffic and He drives much too fast. But not fast enough. I snake my hand into his lap while we cruise, stroking his cock firmly through his slacks, making the bulge grow.
I lean against him, unbuckling and unzipping and revealing, lean down to take him in my mouth, to take this rigid cock into my mouth and bathe it in sweet, velvety warmth. his man juices have seeped out the end of his cock and it tastes of summer. He tastes of sinning and heat, like summer, and his cock seems to grow even larger in my throat as I stroke it with my tongue, work it between my lips -- though I know this is only an illusion. It seems as if He grows and presses against the back of my throat, and his hand presses against the back of my head, twining his fingers in my hair.
Then He quickly pulls me back and says, "Wait, Michelle. Wait this time. Go slower this time."
He wants to savor it, and I shiver, regaining my control and moving back in my seat. I stare at him as we drive, memorizing his features, matching them with the image of him in my head. His hair is longer, too, a bit shaggy, down to the top of his shoulders. His eyes are the clear blue-green of the water along a Caribbean beach.
I want to devour him, want to dine on him, but I lean back in my seat, set my hand on his thigh and close my eyes. My heart races, and I mentally try to slow it down. My heart races, and I listen to it beat in my ears. Slow down, I whisper, Slow down.
We're there: in the garage, in the elevator, in the hallway, in his apartment. We're there: in the living room, in the kitchen, down the hallway, to his bedroom. We're there: stripping -- too quickly, slow it down -- stripping off layers of clothing, watching each other but not helping each other -- off, off, off -- I lose buttons in the process, tearing through my traveling suit, He swears at his shoes, at the knot in the laces of his leather sketchers, and then yanks them off without untying.
On the bed, in his arms, fast, I need him fast. I need him now and hard and fast.
"Shh, baby, slow." Rocky says it, I hear it, but I can't do it.
"I need," I tell him, "I need."
And He needs it too, we'll go slow later, we'll go slow after. He turns me on my side and plunges forward, driving inside me, bucking inside me, his eyes open and staring down at me, blue-green eyes as clear as the Caribbean ocean. his lips are parted, his teeth clenched, his jaw tight. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead and the rise of his cheekbones. his hair matted, his smell is all around me, his body is all around me. I lose myself in the feeling of his fingers on my breasts, of his warm open mouth on my neck, of his skin against mine. I arch forward, capturing him to me, meeting his lips with my own, drinking in his kisses, drinking in his love.
Our hips snap together, and I open up and take him inside me, draining him with my muscles. He is everywhere at once, pulling out and going down between my legs to taste me there, licking me, lapping at my flood of juices, of nectar, of honey. He turns and I am sucking from her, drinking his as I did in the car, lapping all of my juices away. I work steadier -- "keep that rhythm" -- then quickly He is up and positioning me on the bed and He is in me from behind, working me and I arch and rock his back. And when I feel it, feel the tremors build inside her, the shudders that work through the muscles of his thighs, I pull away and order her, with just a flick of my hair, with just a look in my eyes, "On the bed -- on your back."
And I'm on her, on top of her, riding, driving, taking his so deep inside me and making that connection happen. Our hearts connecting, our blood rushing at the same beat, at that same crazy beat. his eyes lock on mine, his hands are in my hair, on my waist, cupping my breasts. his mouth says, "kiss me," and I do. his eyes say, "love me," and I do. And I do: love her, kiss her, work her, devour her, savor her. Until there is nothing left. Until those waves of power roll over us both and there is nothing left.
In his arms, his smell around me, in his arms with my hair over his shoulders and over my breasts, He says, softly, joking with me, teasing me, "Tomorrow..."
And I smile, and I kiss his gently, and I say, "Tonight."

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