Different people often perceive, remember, and interpret, the same events in different ways. I'm writing this story three times, from the three characters' separate perspectives and (hopefully) in styles appropriate to their personalities.
He's such a pretty boy.
I like to look at him, lying there asleep without a care in the world. Flat on his back as usual, with his arms wrapped round the pillow above his head.
Today, as on most days, I'm awake before him and it gives me the opportunity to sit up in bed and just look without making him self conscious. I like to study the shape of him, the colour of his skin, the slight asymmetry that makes rather than mars his face, imbuing what might otherwise appear too cold with a hint of his quirky personality. I watch the flickering beneath his eyelids, the gentle heaving of his chest, the occasional twitch of those arms. And at about this time every morning, the tent-like rise in the light summer duvet as his early morning erection gets into gear.
There it goes. My (admittedly) short experience has taught me that he'll be waking naturally in about ten minutes. Time to move then.
I've already been awake for about half an hour. I've always been a natural early riser, waking with the first lightening of the sky. I've never needed an alarm clock, which generally is a blessing, though it can make it hard to get over jet-lag anywhere that doesn't have really thick curtains. The curtains here aren't bad in themselves, though plenty of light gets round the edges and through chinks here and there.
There is one chink right now, right at the top centre where the curtains meet. The sun must have risen as it just lit up, casting a beam through the dust motes dancing in the air like a searchlight.
It's hitting the wall right above John's head, a little triangle of gold, or an arrow pointing right at him.
That gives me an idea.
Can I pull it off? If I slip up it will give the game away, but then again it's pretty sure to blow his mind if it works. Worth a try, he's slow to wake anyway, so I'll probably get away with it as long as I can keep the sun out of his eyes.
I stand right in the centre of the window and open the curtains a little. The dawn sun strikes my body, just clearing the horizon but already there is heat in it, even this late in the year. I stand there for a few moments, naked in the sun. In my head I know the windows are silvered, and that virtually no-one has a view even if they were awake at this hour, but a lifetime of training screams at me to draw them closed again.
I resist the urge, then master it and push the curtains open, quietly and carefully, as far as I can reach to left and right. Six feet of span and floor to ceiling open to the dawn with myself framed in it like DaVinci's woman. I turn and see my own shadow cast on the floor, the wall, and right across John on the bed as intended. So far so good.
I walk towards the bed down a path of darkness amid the sea of gold. Very poetic, very unlike me. I grasp the duvet, and slowly, carefully pull it down and off.
Oh my, what a sight!
I am already wet between the thighs at the thought of what I'm planning, but the sight of his firm upright manhood just lifting itself clear of his chest, nodding slightly in time with his heartbeat, would do the trick if I wasn't.
I reach down myself with my right hand and massage gently. I'm glad I shaved yesterday, and now I reach between and spread the wetness around my lips. I feel them swell as I do. No need to imagine much longer, but I slowly insert the middle two fingers and rub with my palm anyway.
Just for a few moments I think of Tennyson doing that, reaching round from behind as she pressed herself against me and kissed my neck, while John stroked my left breast with one hand, and took my right between his lips.
Only one of them here now, a pity in its way.
I decide to stop dreaming, I am here now and I wouldn't have dared even dream of this a few weeks ago. I certainly could not have conceived it as even a remote possibility. Yet here I am now, and I resolve to make the best of it, which is a very good place indeed, and not allow myself to be distracted by where I have been. Besides, I hope and expect to be going there again. I press into myself again, my breath catches; with these thoughts running through my head I could come this way in no time at all, but I won't, I'll save it.
I'm ready, and so clearly is he.
I climb onto the bed, still careful to keep my shadow falling across his face. This isn't easy, but he's got his feet together thankfully so it isn't impossible. I crawl up and over him without touching then, when I'm positioned in the right place, I sink down to my knees and, with a little help from my wet hand, slide his cock inside me.
He's still asleep, but I feel him stiffen further on his own, filling me and pressing me forwards. I resist gently but firmly, sitting back onto my heels and rocking there gently to feel it work inside me.
John's eyes flicker faster for a few heartbeats, then open a crack. I don't make a sound. Neither does he, but after a few moments he reaches back and pushes the pillows into a ball to bring his head up a bit.
I look at him, and he looks at me. I imagine I'm not showing much detail with the bright sunrise right behind me, though I can see him perfectly well. I look into his eyes, now clearing as the sleep leaves. They begin at my face and slowly descend my body down to where we intersect, then they slowly begin to ascend again, stopping here and there. His face is still expressionless, but I'm gratified to hear his breathing deepening a little, and his cock responding too.
His eyed dwell around my breasts for a few moments. I don't consider them my best feature, I have always thought them too small and hard, but John has shown clearly that he likes them. Given where his favours usually reside I find that as a considerable compliment.
His eyes slide higher still, dwelling around my neck, or chin maybe, then ascending to my face. They aren't looking into my own eyes, I'm certain I'm just a silhouette from his viewpoint, but seem to trace the edges of my face.
His expression becomes quizzical for a few moments, his eyes flickering up and left as if studying an internal list. Then it clears.
I'm approaching orgasm, and I feel him swell a little more inside me, and I feel myself grasp him and pull inside. His erection must be feeling the pressure now; however much I may like it, it's got to hurt being wrenched back like that. I lean over and take some weight on the headboard to relieve the pressure on him a little. I spread my legs wider and push harder, and harder again, then lower myself a bit further to grind my mound into his. I push, and push.
I remember Tennyson again, kissing me that first time, with her breasts pressed to mine and her groin pressing into my midriff, we were both fully clothed then, yet it will live in my memory as one of the most erotic experiences of my life. Certainly the single most surprising too. Then minutes later, both naked, she was kissing me again; on the lips, then the breast, then the belly, then down there in the dark as John picked up the theme starting at the lips again.
A groan escapes me, I am learning to let go, but it still comes as a bit of a surprise at times. Another escapes. I struggle briefly with myself, then I manage to stop fighting and let them free. It comes easier each time. These two are doing me so much good, setting me free.
I lean right down and kiss him at last. He holds my shoulders now, strong hands grasping and kneading in a way that reminds me of last Friday's massage, the remembered scent of almond oil coming unbidden to mind. Had that been before the sex, or during? Where the one might have stopped and the other started I am not really sure, nor do I care. The comforting scent of almonds overlays the memory of that evening like a warm blanket.
I release the headboard and cup the back of his head, pulling him into me at mouth and groin, wanting all of his tongue and penis at once. My breasts caress his chest.
I'm close now, very close.
I need his length, I rise again to grasp the headboard, and push for all I'm worth, down and down. I feel him deep inside, as deep as I can push and grasp together. I'm aware of the sounds I'm making, but I pay no attention. I'm learning not to try to stop them but to let them out. I'm succeeding today, able to listen to my cries like they are coming from someone else.
He's stopped sliding down the bed, good. I press harder again, wanting every inch of him. He's rising to meet me, giving me the extra I'm looking for.
I hear myself yell again, and my body takes over from the last of my conscious control. I let it, and I ride the bronco, faster and faster, harder and harder,
Then I grasp and pull him inside and freeze, my whole attention shrunk to my g-spot and the end of his penis pressing against it.
I can feel my muscles brace throughout my body, quivering with the tension. I squeeze inside for a second,... two... three...
Then we both cry out as we burst together. And again. And again.
I move again, grinding onto his cock, feeling the jet against the spot deep inside, each spurt from him bringing another clench from me. Or is it the clench first? They happen together so I can't really tell.
Eventually I feel us both starting to run down. I pull him out and back in slowly, keeping us going as long as I can, but the high of orgasm is giving way.
I settle back, sated for now. I relish the feel of John deep inside me. Despite all that he's still hard, but I won't be greedy.
The sun has moved round and is shining on his face now, when did that happen? Again I catch the thoughtful expression, one day I'll nerve up and ask him what he's thinking about, but not today. Not today.
I watch him in the bright light, the morning sun heating my back. I see his face before me, and I see Tennyson's alongside it in my mind, and realize I love them both.
Maybe it shows on my face, as he smiles at me, and I can't help responding in kind.
I lean forward and we kiss once again, long and slow.
As we kiss I wonder to myself how I got to be so lucky. The last few weeks have seemed like a blur to me, nothing but a mess of vague impressions and mis-ordered events.
I know I've been to work every weekday, and I know I've been able to do my job as well as usual, despite my own memories and John's occasional appearances serving to distract me. Yes, I know I've been to work, but right now I can't recall a single thing I've done there; its as if that experience has been the province of a completely separate person who simply borrows my body when I'm not using it.
When I'm not with John.
That thought makes me pause, for I know this dream won't last forever.
“I love you, do you know that?” I ask. I can hardly get the words out for the lump in my throat, threatening to choke me. Suddenly I am close to tears.
He reaches up and strokes my cheek, the absolute love in his eyes threatens to overwhelm me.
“Yes.” he replies softly.
He gently pulls me down to him, and kisses me once again.
“And I love you too,” he breaths, “my dearest Julia.”
© Marcus Brook 2015