Pissed, Flipped and Poked

At 2pm I began to pace. The energy of anticipation had my muscles feeling twitchy and a low hum had started up in my loins. M,y lover was due any moment.

At 3pm, I sighed. It was not unusual for my man to get sidetracked. I reclined on the sofa with book, sitting up quickly to scan out the window each time a car crunched by on the dirt road that ran in front of the house.

At 4pm I chucked the book across the room and grabbed my phone. “What gives?” I texted. At 4:30 the phone rang. “I’m so sorry,” he said. The boss wanted us all to go have a beer. I’m actually standing around fire with a bunch of dudes. Another hour, tops.” I looked out the window at the mist that kept turning to a chill drizzle and occasionally a near-freezing rain. How could he possibly be having more fun there than here?

The humming in my loins diminished and a new buzz began to thrum through my mine. I was pissed. Our time together was limited and he was using it to stand around in the rain and booze it up with his co-workers? Impossible! I began to rehearse the tongue lashing he’d get when and if he showed up.

At 6pm I grabbed the phone again. “Seriously?” I texted. “Be there in 20 minutes,” was his reply text. I fumed as I threw another log into the woodstove. I scowled as I choked down a few bites of leftovers. At 6:50, when I heard the stone-munching turn of his wheels coming up the drive, something snapped.

I’d been anticipating my lover. If I chewed his ass when he walked in the door, I’d be as foolish as he…choosing something cold over something hot. He walked in, sheepishness dancing across his face. I smiled.

“I know, I know…” he began as he peeled of his wet coat and sat to unlace his work boots. I turned my back on him and went to the woodstove. I opened the front and gave the hot coals a poke. Flames obediently leapt up. He was stumbling through a description of his evening as he came up behind me. I rose, turned, and clasped both his cold hands in mine. I leaned in and let my lips graze his ear as I whispered, “Why don’t you get warm?”

His eyes widened. I could almost hear the gears in his head grinding, wondering how it was I was smiling. He squatted down in front of the open stove and held out his hands. I stood behind him, pulled the ball cap from his head and began to run my fingers through his hair.

“You’re pissed,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “Disappointed, but not pissed. Time wasted, me thinks.”

He continued to hunker in front of the fire; I continued to play with his hair, letting my fingers dance across his brow, slide along the edges of his ears and travel down to trace swirls across the back of his neck. He sighed.

He rose and turned to me. “I know you’re pissed.”

I smiled and placed my hand on his chest, thinking how much I loved his heart and how much it didn’t need a woman-scorned berating. I pushed him gently and he took a step back and fell into the plush, brown reclining chair next to the stove. He looked up at me, questions popping like fireflies behind his eyes. I leaned over and placed my lips on his. My hands came back up to his hair, his ears, and his neck as I softened my mouth and sunk deeper into the kiss. I felt the tension leave his body as one hand came up to cup my cheek and hold the kiss. He pulled back suddenly, “You’re not pissed? Really?”

I squatted down between his knees and undid his belt. I slid his pants down and off and cupped each knee. I gazed at his delightfully hard cock and licked my lips. Yes…this was going to be much more fun than arguing. I pulled his member toward me, puckered my mouth and settled a long, wet kiss on the tip. Then I smiled up at him. “Do I look pissed?”

I returned my mouth the crown of his cock and slid all the way down once, wetting the skin and pulling the remnants of cold from him. As I slid my mouth back up, I wrapped one hand around the base of him, and let the other hand curve around his upper thigh, thumb moving into the space between his leg and his boys. He sighed.

I kept my mouth around the tip of him and my tongue began to explore the ridge of his cock’s head. I slid my hand up and down, creating a gentle base tempo for my tongue to counterpoint. His head crept into my hair. I almost giggled, thinking this was like the adult version of rub your tummy and pat your head. I squeezed his thigh.

I felt him push the back of my head gently, felt his want to be fully in my mouth. My lips travelled just a few millimeters past his tip to meet the rising of my hand. I squeezed his thigh again, and reached my thumb out to caress the side of his sack, feeling the curve of the orb that lived beneath. The wood popped and crackled in the stove; his hand in my hair tightened a bit.

When I finally released my mouth to take the full journey to the base of his cock, he moaned; a sound that invariably caused me to tremble with want of my own. I wanted to be filled with him. In the bowl of my hips, it felt like fire and laughter were mingling, joining, turning into something that pulsed a hot mantra, “Fill me. Fill me. Fill me.” I picked up my tempo to match my want’s mantra.

He suddenly hooked his hands beneath my arms and hoisted me up. The fire in the stove hissed and the fire in his eye bore into me. He pulled my shirt up and over my head, cupped one breast, and brought it to his mouth. His hand squeezed. His tongue danced. I sighed, the imagined argument now nothing more than smoke leaving the chimney.

The “Fill me. Fill me. Fill me,” mantra throbbed upward, demanding to be heeded. I hooked my thumbs into my pants and shucked them off. Small problem, however, the chair didn’t have room for both my man and my knees. Easily solved.

I pulled away and turned around, stepping across his legs and tilting my hips forward. “Oh, yes,” he sighed. His cock nudged up against me. The mantra grew louder. “Fill me! Fill me!” I paused, relishing the intensity of anticipation. Then I settled down onto his cock. He placed his hand on the small of my back and pushed me into a deep forward bend. I thanked myself for the hours of yoga that allowed my hips to move into a full forward flexion. I rooted my feet to the floor, and began to slowly raise and lower myself on him.

The heat of the woodstove slid over us as he held my hips, aiding my movements. The angle of him knocked on a door of pleasure that felt both old and new. I held his ankles tight and rode the mantra deeper into myself. I could hear his breath coming faster, getting a tinge of “Oh” in it. I could feel him swelling even more within me. He was now pounding on my old/new door of pleasure and I felt it ready to fly open, felt the imminent release of something amazing.

He gripped my hips tighter, his fingers curling around the quarter-moon curve of my hip bones. His fingers dug in as he gave voice to his own imminent release. As always, the sound of his pleasure was what I needed to unlock the door. Deep within, a hot, white sweetness burst forth into me; it rose on the song of my mantra, seared my heart and came from my mouth as three, guttural “yeses.”

He slowed our rhythm and my mantra subsided into a purring, “Yes. Yes. Yummmm.” I sat up and arched my back so I could lean my head back against his shoulder.  He wrapped one hand around my waist and lifted the other to caress my cheek. His lips found my neck and he held a long kiss there. “I thought you’d be mad,” he whispered. “I almost didn’t come.”

“But you did come. In more ways than one,” I murmured.

He chuckled.

I sat up and reluctantly disengaged myself from him. I turned to the woodstove and opened the front, enjoying the warm breath of wood heat that wafted across my bare skin. The fire had dwindled and the coals winked at me. I picked up the iron poker and handed it to him. “I’m going to get us a couple drinks,” I said, handing him the poker. “I’ll ask you to the poking.”

Anja Vikarma

Anja Vikarma is an author living in the boondocks of upstate New York. She delights in using playful erotic prose to enliven and tantalize readers. Most recently, she was published in the anthology, “Stretched: Erotic Fiction that Fondles the Imagination.” In addition to writing, Anja teaches yoga and creative writing, plays in a rock band, and is an amateur tap dancer. You can get a daily dose of yum from Anja at her Facebook page. Anja's profile pic is "Breath of the Dakini" by A. Andrew Gonzalez

You may also like...

2 Responses

  1. Ang. says:

    Wow, gorgeous! And great advice for living a happy life, as well!