Before
You asked me to write something, so I did, I wrote about the time when I watched you; an early evening in early winter, or perhaps late autumn. It was dark outside and we were going out, I’d bounded up the stairs in socked feet, grasping the handrail in easy sweeps, eager to be ready to take you out. Through the crack between door and wall I caught a glimpse of you, relaxing in calm moments on the bed. Your clothes laid out beside your feet, neatly spread and dangling over the end. Had you laid down to pull your skinny jeans up easier? Were you simply thinking of nothing in the silence? Or gazing over the rooftop dark to other places, seeing shooting stars in our night? Whatever. You stopped me where I was, watching your peaceful grace in the rising soft light. Your jeans weren’t yet done up, and leaning my head against the smooth painted wood, I ran my eyes along from relaxed face, down your neck past the rise of your, unfortunately, covered breasts, down beyond the open flat expanse of stomach, to where the gate posts of your jutting hipbones drew my eyes downward still, to a vee in negative; a pale triangle lined by black. Was it my gaze? Or the peace of the room? The ideas of the night? Whatever. But you moved your hand, moved it over the rising mound where your zip parted; a chevron of temptation. I lost sight of your fingers, dipping beneath the dark denim, but imagined with open eyes as you closed yours. You were still. I was too. But then you weren’t quite still. There was a slight undulation, almost I thought it wasn’t, like when you see something move because you’ve looked at it too long… but you did move, gently, minutely. You shifted. Your arm shifted. Those hidden fingers were pressing against the material of your pants, I imagined you were moist, dampness soaking through to warm your fingers. Imagining the fabric skating over shifting wiry hairs, I lean my head against the smooth door pillar, wondering if one long digit’s dipped beneath the thin elastic band… I rearrange myself, uncomfortably trapped as I’ve become, as you slide you hand now beneath your pants, I can’t see, but I imagine your finger parting slippery flesh, dipping into that fluid pool, before drawing upward to circle, but not touch… and then you’re lifting your hips – a glance at the clock, one at your watch for confirmation – you lift your hips, slip things down below you knees, a kick and they bunch calf low as you open your knees wide, stroking the boundary of your mound – thigh and up; stomach and up, breasts and down – resting on your pale tummy as the other rotates, knuckle pressing, building a rhythm, shifting with soft sighs I hear and beginning again… poking from my waistband, I glisten in the light. Tempted, instead I continue my longing gaze. Your hand now moving in swift time, knuckle bent, pressing, back and forth shuffling as you push your hips up to meet your hand… until abruptly you arch, my breath held as yours exhales in sudden quiet stolen gasps, and stiff you seize in arced-eye-closed spasm. As you relax into the bed, your fingers circling your rising dark mound, I withdraw slowly, ready to come up the stairs noisily and prepare for our night out…
During
We walk to town, I hold your hand through the warm autumn evening, a soft sunset enticing us inwards, through swathes of crisp hued leaves. We indulge their yearning to be kicked through in russet waves. Bending suddenly, you gather handfuls, and in the momentary pause I realise you’ve not worn a bra, I present an easy target; suddenly I’m leafmould man; sycamore, beech and oak clinging to my hair, jutting from my collar. Yelling I give high pitched chase down the grassy banks, rolling you to the soft ground yards from gate and your refuge of paved sense, pushing handfuls crackling October colour down your top. Sorely tempted, my hands don’t linger, instead we stroll, smiling and bumping hips in giggles to the pub, both lifting leaves unexpected from hidden corners of our clothes. In the dark corner of the pub, we sit close, thighs touching playing with beer mats. Conversation weaves in tangles about us, making us utterly oblivious of the world around; we kiss and touch thighs, fingertip soft we sip our beers in the gloom, and I touch your lips with mine, glancing down to catch delicious glimpses of your nipples as your eyes close in tongue tingling exploration. You know the effect you have on me, delighting in tempting movements of revealing temptation, batting me eager hands away with a grinning nudge… naughty… and so I sit in bound frustration, as your fingers skim and dance in reflection of your eyes, and I find it harder to keep my hands from wandering as my eyes do. Occasional chance mean I stroke the crease of your jeans, feeling your heat, imagining, as I squeeze your thigh, just revelling in being with you, because nothing could be better than this time we have.
AFTER
We’re walking home, a surprisingly pleasant evening you say, smiling, I laugh, wondering why you’re surprised an evening with me would be pleasant and you bat my arm. Stupid, you say, the weather! I agree and squeeze you just a little tighter, brushing your side softly as I relinquish such tight hold. Yes, of course I do manage, barely it’s true, but still I do, to brush the side of you breast. You shiver slightly, hold my arm down and whisper, ‘later’ to me. That’s the problem, this walk is lovely, but I have ideas, things I rather be doing with you than walking slowly up this hill. We reach the park, all locked now, and I spin you around, press you against the dark railing and kiss you in tongues, you respond vigorously as I hold you denim backside, pulling you up to me as I press you back into the fence, I know you can feel my erection, you’ve writhed lithe against me, now you’ve insinuated a hand between us. You stroke me. Then push away, wriggling from me, squeal and run, your fingers trailing the railings, until at the gate, glancing back, you clamber swift over, landing coiled on the other side, the park side, laughing wildly, ‘can’t catch me…’ You lift your top, and in moon-breast temptation, I climb the gate too, landing less gracefully than you. I chase you in the dark, sodium tinged shadows throwing hues from distant roads, as you dodge round trunks, in and out of well trimmed bushes, until finally you throw yourself down far from the gate, breathing heavily that you’ve had enough. I toss myself beside you, heaving with exerted grins. Reaching for my hand you prop yourself on one elbow, kissing me; a long kiss, a kiss never to stop; a kiss fusing lips, tongues to toes kiss. Your hand plays under my t-shirt, fingernail light across my stomach, chest… and again. A waistband trail and I breathe in, hoping you’ll go lower. You do. Diving down the hip bone arched space, grasping me, pulling me free of the leg nest I’ve been confined to. ‘Hmm’ you say, holding me hard and warm in your palm, ‘mine.’ I laugh, lifting your top, ‘mine’ I say, rolling hard nipples in both hands. You laugh, ‘kiss me.’ I do, but as you lean in, I dart my head away, kissing instead your exposed breasts. Up, around, sometimes taking a pert tip in my mouth, tweaking gently at you with my teeth – ‘I’m sure it’s not I laugh when you say it’s just the cold – you pull me up, kiss me, my hand on safari, breeze drifting over your skin. I release the button of your low slung jeans, cupping you inside your pants. Wiry soft mound firm beneath my hand as your tongue plays with mine and my finger eases slowly inside that long tempting crease. You’re wet. The tip of my finger dips inside you, but no more. Your zip still up I cannot move, instead I shift, circling moisture around your clit, not touching, touching the rising ridge barely. You wriggle and I withdraw, sliding the zip down, looking for more room, but you lift yourself, and we wriggle your jeans down. You grab at my belt, ‘I want to fuck you,’ you whisper, kissing me, rolling me backwards, undoing my belt, and pushing zip and jeans out of the way… I’m inside you, hot and moist, tight on me, deep inside you as your tongue is deep in my mouth. I hold your backside, push up into you, moving fluidly in easy strokes. I feel you knee tangled jeans pressing on my legs, your hard darting tongue, you lips pressing hard on mine as I rise and fall inside you. I slow, not wanting this to end, but you move on me, no you say. I want you now. I want you to come. And I move swifter, kissing you hard as you wriggle on me, lying flat now, your breasts on my chest, distant cars vrooming. I know… and then you’re squeezing me so tight inside in waves, every part of you holds me, your hands on my head, your tongue hard and still as you bite my lips, you inside rigid, trying to squeeze me out, but I push into you again, and once more, deep and come in gushes, groaning my joy that you’re with me as I do. I continue to move as you relax, our kisses slow, soft… straightened we walk home in hands of delicious smiles.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ggycjl/watching_you