Mr. Gray, Samuel, Sam, Part 2
Read part one of this story.
Sam calls, late one night. It’s been a month since I left my small town, the one where I grew up, the one where all my memories reside, where Sam lives. He’s Sam to me now, not even “Samuel,” certainly not “Mr. Gray.” While we talk, I am lying on my bed, in my apartment, eight blocks from where I go to class. He and I talk very often now, almost daily. This night, we talk for quite awhile, and he tells me that he’d like to visit me, sometime soon, and I tell him of course, please, yes, do. Then…
“Touch yourself for me, Andy,” he says. His voice is thick with need, and I comply, sucking my fingers into my mouth, loudly, so he can hear it. “Oh god, Andy, the things you do to me,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that he’s already touching himself, and I picture his long-fingered, beautiful hand wrapped around his cock, and I moan, involuntarily, and bring my fingers down to my cunt, already growing wet, already soaking through my black cotton underwear. I dip my fingers inside, hear that slick, sucking noise it makes, and I describe what I’m doing to Samuel, slowly, in ever-building detail. “Andy, I wish I was there. I wish I was – oh, fuck, I want you, Andy, I want you.” I tell him I want him too, let him hear the naked need in my voice, and I slide two of my fingers over my clit, over and over, and I bring myself very close, and then I wait, ask him to give me permission, to let me come. “Please, please,” I say, and he lets me, says I can come, and so I do. He follows moments later, and thanks me. I smile, in the dark of my bedroom, tell him I would love it if he would visit me. So, one week later, he is at my door.
We fall on each other, barely taking time to say hello, and he practically slams me against the wall, but I like it like that, so I don’t complain one bit. We find our way into my bedroom, peeling off clothing as we go, and I dig into the drawer beside my bed, bring out a condom, roll it onto his dick that I’m seeing for the very first time. It isn’t exceptionally long, but it is thick, and I know I’ll feel very full once he’s inside me. And then he is – inside me – and I cry out, with a feeling of something like relief. It is so good, the fullness, the feel of his strong, solid limbs pressing against me, holding me down. He grabs my wrists, makes a noise that is so very inhuman, so very animal, a sound of pure need, of things that can never quite be said with words alone. He says things, too, tells me how it feels, finally being inside me, and that I’m lovely…and that he loves me. I don’t know what to say, at first, so I just kiss him, struggling to even lift up that far, because he is holding me down so very hard. He tells me he loves how I writhe underneath him, how it feels to have my lithe, young body under him, how fucking amazing it feels to be inside me, how tight I am. I make myself tighter, grip his dick with my pussy, and he smiles, says “Oh, so the kitten has a few tricks up her sleeve?” Weeks later, he still calls me “kitten,” a nickname that sticks for years.
When the pleasure almost gets to be too much, I tell him that, and he taunts me, the bastard. Tells me it has to be like always, that I have to beg, or he’ll just pull right out of me and jack off onto my tits, leave me the only one who hasn’t come. His lips move till they’re practically touching mine, and I say everything that I can think of to talk him into giving me permission, to allow me to reach the spot of ultimate sensual pleasure. I say everything but those three words, those ones the poets always talk about, because I’m not ready to tell him that yet. But I am ready to come, and when he finally tells me I can, that’s all it takes, just an order from him, and my body ripples with the power of it building, building, then, finally, rushing through me, and I think, I must be glowing right now, it feels so fucking good.
Words are hard to come by after my orgasm, and so I do what I’ve always done in these situations, say “Thank you,” but this time I really mean it. I want to thank him for so many things, I can already hear the list forming in my head, and as the years pass, the list gets longer and longer, like it always must when someone treats you the way you deserve to be treated, quirks and annoyances and all of you completely accepted by your partner, but not taken for granted. No, never that.
When we are done, later, and he is curled up against me, pressed against me again, but soft this time, I tell him that I feel the same way, a conclusion that I feel down to my very bones. I am ripe with my love for him, I know this now, I tell him, and I just hadn’t known for sure, until what he said to me, but his words have now brought the same ones from my lips, and I am happy. I drift off, with him murmuring sweet and lovely things into my ear.
We marry six months later, but first, there’s a thrilling, last-time-before-we’re-husband-and-wife fuck on the floor of our living room. It is still fresh between us, the passion, the lust that fills a deep, untouchable spot in my body that grows and grows, until each time I come, and then it’s released. Sam’s made me come a million times by now, millions, maybe, but it is still fresh, still better than it’s been with anyone else. I hope it stays that way, and I will find out over the years that it does. Familiarity doesn’t mean an end to lust, to passion, it just adds power to it, I am still learning. I stare up into his eyes, my legs twisted around him, and this time he doesn’t make me beg, this time he tells me I should make him beg, and so I do. I tease and taunt him, holding him completely still with the legs that have grown strong from the daily runs I’ve started taking. “No,” I say to him, “This time it’s all about me.” So I get off, and he doesn’t get to. I tell him he has to save all that come up for our wedding night, that I want that sweet release to be extra sweet when we bed each other as husband and wife for that very first time. He surprises me by thanking me as we lie together on the floor. I am panting from my own sweet release, and he is still hard, and still, he thanks me.
“For what?” I ask him. “I didn’t let you come.”
“For being mine,” he says. And then, after a few moments, he adds, “For being you.”