Weekend in Eden

There's a lot going on in my life these days. Live in one city, work in another city 700 miles away. Fly down at 6am every Monday morning, fly home landing at 9pm every Friday night. Both cities I love and find to be lots of fun... time permitting. I've said it's interesting having so much bigger a pool of friends both old and new that I'm still too busy to spend any time with. Especially naked, greasy, piggy time.

But I have a secret weapon: a hot guy that gets me hot and wild, whose company I enjoy... and with whom, if we never got out of bed (or sling or fuck-bench) for anything but the occasional meal, it would be a vacation in paradise. Or, more to the point, a fuck-cation. (And, of course, in yet another city, a few hundred more miles from home.)

From the second he picks me up at the airport, I'm on another plane of being. Yes, of course, we're friends, we talk about life and everything in it as we ride. But part of me is an hour in the future, naked and on fire with lust.

And, soon, that hour passes. It takes us no more than a minute to get from the front door to the bed, clothes on the floor, bodies against each other. Kissing, hands everywhere. My fingers in his long hair, then his hair brushing my skin.

"Turn around." More than a command, more than a request. It's a signal to do what my body wants most to do, what I want most to do: to offer my hole to him, to feel him in me. A moment to get it slick and ready, and I feel him pushing into me. And I relax and open to let him in. And push back to pull him in. Relaxing for it, more quickly than before, more fully than before.

His thrusts vary: first deep and hard, next shallower, working my hole open wider, then deeper again. And, after a few minutes: "On your front." He props a pillow under my neck, another between my head and the headboard. I spread my legs, and he spreads them wider, climbing on top of me. I feel his hair lightly on the hair of my back. His cock enters me again, harder this time. Changing his angle as he rides me, he works me open and relaxes me even more inside. I push back; animal-like, I moan and growl.

My sensation, my pleasure is totally focused on my hole. I love that; he loves that. He knows it is here for his pleasure, and that is my pleasure. I want his load in me. But I also want him to go on and on and on and fill me and ride me and stay in me.

He changes positions every few minutes, always against my back, or over it. And, after a while, rests his arm on my back, puts his weight on me, and I can feel the urgency of his thrusts intensifying. He's close. He is grunting as he pounds in. (I am still moaning and growling, as I have been for uncounted minutes, me mind adrift, the sounds coming from an uncharted territory in me, as if my hole is the center of all there is for me, and at that point, it is.)

And, finally, I can feel his load in me. Some insist you can't, but I know I do. And as he stays in me as long as he can, I feel the throbbing that is the long tail of his orgasm. And he's still hard, he still fucks me for a while. He shifts on me, once, twice, and I know that, soon, he will pull out. And, eventually, he does. I have an infinitesimal and momentary feeling of abandonment, of leaving Eden.

That sets the tone for the weekend. How many more times does he fuck me, and for how long? Three times, four times, some unknown and unmeasured time. After the first fuck, he starts working to get me off. "I want more of your loads in me before I get off." So he waits. I want to be a hole, for his pleasure and mine, his hole; my dick is, if not in the way, totally apart from the experience. We talk, we kiss, we feel each other's bodies, we sleep, we do it some more, we sleep, we do it some more. I take more of his loads. We break to eat (as I recall), and to shower together - during which we figure out that we are almost, but not perfectly, at the height and angles where shower sex is workable. He shaves my head smooth, as he loves it. He massages my tired, knotted, stressed body - though the best stress relief is time on this island of time, lost in fucking.

More than once, we say, "I love you," and mean it. But also, some specifics. Me: "I love that you know my hole is here for you, that it's yours to use." Him: "I love knowing you're my cumdump." And he wondered, and we talked, about anal orgasms. I said I was feeling more and more of my pleasure from being fucked, and that grows every time.

At some point while we are lying around and touching and kissing and breathing in exhaustion, he says to me, "I've been trying to figure out how I want to introduce you. 'Dating' doesn't go far enough. Are we boyfriends?" I have a husband, who knows what I do, and whose own adventures I know about, and it's been that way for the almost twenty years we've been together; he has other local lovers as well. What we have in no way diminishes any of that, in in lots of ways enhances it.

"Yeah, 'boyfriend' totally works for me," I say.

(Though I have to admit that I was thinking, "But the introduction issue won't actually matter, if we never get out of bed. And I can deal with that, too. Oh, yeah.")