I've waited so long. It feels like I'm still waiting, I don't think it's really hit me yet. Not even as I drive to the airport, not even as I find your flight on that giant, obnoxious board. I haven't quite realized that in just a few short minutes, I'm going to be meeting you for the first time.
A few short minutes. I should have known better. They drag out, and on, what's taking so long? I entertain myself with stories about how your luggage started buzzing, so customs took you aside and found, instead of a bomb, a buttplug. About how you found the thought of seeing me so overwhelming that you were even now leaning against the door of a bathroom stall, moaning my name under your breath, pinching your nipple to get off as you stroked your length. About all the things I was going to do to you, for needing to touch my cock before you touched me.
I sip the sweet, syrupy concoction Starbucks calls coffee and watch the exit gate. The toe of my Fendi pump taps impatiently on the tile floor, but the rest of my body is stock still. I feel coiled in on myself, like I'm ready to pounce.
Wouldn't you know it, the moment I let myself be distracted by someone else's conversation, you walk out. I'm busy listening, sort of against my will, to some woman talk about an illicit rendevouz she's planning with a man definitely not her husband, and suddenly you're at my side. Your hand reaches for my shoulder, but you know better than to touch me, and so the first sight I have of you is you on your knees in front of me, your head bowed.
I place a finger under your chin and raise your head until I can meet your eyes, searching them with mine. Without thinking, I lean in until I feel your breath on my lips, and as my mouth closes on yours, I whisper, "Finally."
To be continued?
0 comments:
Post a Comment