He’s a box of chocolates: his clothes are just wrappings I rip off impatiently and throw on the floor.
There’s a tale, from Morte d’Arthur, I think, about a knight who wins a contest of strength and courage and is rewarded with the hand of a fair lady.
The only catch is that the fair lady is under a spell, doomed to turn every day into an ugly, graceless hag. The knight is given a choice. He can have her beautiful by day and be envied by all, but a hag when he is alone with her: or he can have the beauty for his eyes only and be mocked by others for being married to an awful old bag.
I almost feel like that with him. No-one knows but I how beautiful he is under his awful clothes. Every time I unwrap him, he’s the best present I ever received.
His skin is like milk, his arms thick twists of rope under velvet, his arse tight and firm, buttocks round and full as cherries. He moves like a wrestler, light on his feet, his shoulders rolling forward, his hips narrow and loose. I want to braid his hair into a rope and climb up it as if he were a tower I needed to conquer. He’s always hard when I want him. Always.
His cock fills me so tightly my vibrator’s a disappointment by contrast. I could lie and sculpt his pectorals with the palm of my hand for hours. I would, if he didn’t complain that it tickles. Sometimes I turn him over and massage him from head to toe, digging my fingers as best I can into the tough weave of muscles along his back. I stand over him and dip one heel into the back of his thigh, pressing down into it with my whole weight, because I’m not nearly strong enough to make any impact on it with my fingers alone. I take his feet into my hands and work each toe gently, knead the soles with my knuckles, sink my thumbs into the softness below the ball, tenderising him a little. And then I make him turn onto his back again and work my way up the soft skin of his inner thighs, trailing my nails up them till his impatient cock jerks up still further into the air.
I kneel over him and rub myself against him, teasing him while I massage his face, smooth out his forehead, pinch lightly along his eyebrows, roll his earlobes between the pads of my fingers, pretending that I’m calming him down while I can feel beneath me how erect he is, how much he wants me.
He’s so hard I don’t even need to reach down and guide him in. He does that all by himself. And then I’m full, completely full. His arms around me, his cock rocking away inside me, pulling out so I can feel how much I want him, driving back in to plug me up again, fill me to the brim. Even when I’m desperate for him to come, even when I feel I can’t take any more, I know that a few minutes afterwards I will want him all over again. He’s better than a box of chocolates; I can glut myself on him and never feel sick or guilty. He’s my sugar rush. His sperm tastes as delicate as sweet almond paste and his sweat rolls over me like salt water. I lick it out of the hollows of his neck as he fucks me. Bite into the caps of muscle on his shoulders. I want to drown in him.
Only when we’re making love do his eyes really look into mine; the rest of the time he’s wary, cautious, almost afraid of me. He has never learnt to trust a lover and he won’t let me teach him. I will never really have him.