Writing it down, I found myself aroused again. Often, I paused and put down my pen, rereading the passage I just wrote as I took off my shirt and ran my hands across my chest and back, along the line of hair that runs down my chest. With my left hand, I undid my jeans and stroked myself through my underwear as I wrote. Slipping my hand underneath the brim, I avoided my cock, teasing myself, running my hand along the inside of my thigh and letting the backs of my fingers tickle my balls. And as I write this now I hold my balls in my hand, gently squeezing and rolling them, pressing deeply against the muscle underneath, the root of my cock, so hard. Enough of writing for now—
The afternoon I first read that piece stays firm in my mind. We woke at two in the afternoon. The house was quiet. Outside, the neighbours could be heard in the yard, as could the trills of birds in the dogwood which bloomed outside her bedroom. It felt like a lazy Sunday afternoon in spring as we revelled in the indolence of rising so late. Laura had called in sick earlier that morning, at dawn, when we decided finally to go to sleep.
The night had been spent in touch, a revelry of physical sensation. I’d had no idea what to expect, when she’d offered to put me up for the night after a poetry reading in New York. I’d figured it was likely I’d wind up on a couch in her living room. Instead she’d given me a massage, by candlelight, on her bed, since my back was sore from lying on floor cushions at the reading. I had injured my wrist, which was in a splint, and thus could only lean on one arm during the entire performance, cradling my injured hand in my lap.
She rubbed scented oils into the muscles, a soothing sensation I had never before experienced. The combination of smells, from the oils and candles, the lighting, the lingering sensation of her fingers along my back – it just seemed natural as we were lying next to each other, to reach out and pet her stomach over the satin of her chemise. Though my hand was in a splint, the fingers were still free and danced across the fabric, thrilling the skin beneath with the light friction. Later, our clothes off, we rubbed our bodies together simply for the exhilarating sensation of skin moving against skin. Crouching over her like a wildcat, I ran my torso over her body, pressing down on her breasts to knead them gently with my own, dragging my body down across her belly, her waist, her legs, then back again. I dropped my head down to let my hair, which I’d been growing out for more than a year now, dangle lightly against her skin.
That night was touch for its own sake. We explored each other’s bodies until dawn, kissed once, briefly, and slept. We stayed in bed until mid-afternoon. At last, I got up and showered, where I found the oils in her medicine cabinet. Wrapped in a towel, I went back into the bedroom and asked her about them, thus discovering the erotica she’d written for Paul. She made tea while I read the piece, understandably nervous about being in the same room with me as I was reading, and soon returned to the bedroom with two steaming mugs.
“Tea?” she asked innocently, ignoring the fact that I’d been reading.
“Come here,” I said, getting to my feet. I let my towel fall to the floor around my feet. I was very excited from her story; my erection throbbed, flushed with blood. I took the mugs from her hands and placed them on the nightstand, enfolding her in my arms. We kissed, and I drew her back onto the bed with me, running my hands along her back through the fabric of her robe. The neck of the robe hung wide, and I nuzzled her skin, running my tongue up to her chin, then back down to slide between her breasts. We rolled over, and she opened the belt of her robe, pulling the dark red fabric back slowly as if she were peeling an artichoke. I wanted to devour her. I leaned over her, bracing myself on my hands, when suddenly my right wrist gave out in a searing wrench of pain. I did not have the splint on, and the pressure of supporting myself had been too much. I bit back a cry, and collapsed on the bed next to her, cradling my injured hand under me, against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m not up to this, it seems.”
“Shhh,” she said, rolling me over and sliding on top of me. “I don’t want you to do anything that will cause you pain.” She took my injured hand in hers and gently kissed it. She licked the palm, then ran her tongue down to my wrist, and slowly along my arm. When she reached my shoulder, she moved across to my nipple, teasing it with circles of her tongue and gentle bites. But she quickly slid backwards, dragging her body along mine as she kissed down my chest and stomach. The loose folds of the robe billowed about her like a butterfly’s wings. Her breath was warm, exhilarating, as she explored my pubic area, rubbing her face against my hard cock as she tickled around my balls with her tongue. At last, her tongue met my shaft – a quick lick, a tentative probe. With her hands, she lifted my cock until it was perpendicular from my body, and slowly lowered her mouth over it, surrounding it, but not touching, not yet, only her warm breath. She held for a moment, and I burned with anticipation. Then her lips closed, and suddenly her tongue pressed against the length of my shaft, sliding up and down.
My breathing grew heavy as she drew her lips along the length of my shaft, teasing my balls with one hand as the other grasped the base of my cock and squeezed gently. I was so excited that it did not take long before her touch pushed me into orgasm. “I’m so close,” I warned her, holding back to prolong the blissful sensation, and give her a chance to pull back if she did not want me to come in her mouth. She kept her lips firmly clamped, her head bobbing up and down furiously, and I could not hold back any longer. I let out a cry, which slowly faded into a sigh as I recovered from my orgasm. My lips and hands were tingling with bliss, and I held them against her body, whispering, once I got my voice, “Look what you do to me.”
“How do your hands feel?” she asked, concerned.
“In ecstasy,” I answered, with a smile. They tingled with pleasure.
Laura smiled as well. “I’ve found a new form of therapy for them, then. Something your doctor would never think to prescribe.”
“They should make you a practising physician,” I said, hugging her close to me and kissing her. My fingertips reflexively began to caress her thigh, but she stopped me.
“I don’t want you to do anything that will injure your wrists. Just lay there and enjoy yourself.”
I was frustrated with my body’s betrayal of me, but succumbed to the bliss it was currently feeling. I lay in the afterglow, feeling incredibly self-indulgent, and enjoying it. The phone rang. I tilted my head to look at her and smiled as she turned to looked back. Neither of us wanted to get up to answer it. After the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up. It was her lawyer, saying that at last he’d submitted the final papers for her divorce, and that soon, hopefully, everything would clear.
I’d known she had been married, but had not realized the divorce was not finalized. Suddenly a gulf loomed large between us as I thought of where she was in her life with regards to where I stood in mine. But curiously, despite the vast differences in our lives, the closeness between us as we lay entwined, her hand gently squeezing my leg, my fingers still caressing despite her protests, did not dissolve.
“Ah, adultery,” I said with a grin as I turned onto my side to look at her.
“A new experience?” she asked, also with a smile. I hesitated, and knew she was suddenly wondering, having noticed. But she did not ask. “Don’t worry,” she continued, “we’ve been separated for over a year now.”
I deliberated whether to tell her, wondering what would happen to our relationship once she knew. “It’s not new,” I say. “For the past two years, up until September when he moved back with his wife in Syracuse, I’ve been seeing Brian Coney.”