Wretch

I knew he couldn't come and it was killing me.

"I know, I'm a wretch," the silly little pet name we have for him.

"It's not your fault, and you're MY wretch," my usual rejoinder.

It feels like I never get to see him. I KNOW I never get enough of him. That afternoon, a day before Valentines Day, the doorbell rings. I'm handed a package and it's the most beautiful chocolate covered strawberries, with a card that said simply: "Wretch".

He is so good at this, somehow making me feel better when I am becoming so despondent. I am very good at twisting the screw, making him miss me more in the hopes he'll find more time... I reach for my red lipstick and my camera. It's time to show my appreciation.

As always he loves the photos. He loves me, and even my bratty screw twisting. The day goes on, colorless without him or the hope of seeing him. It's starting to sink in, maybe not at all this week.
I go out with the girls, try to find some cheer in a glass of vodka and a random flirt. Still colorless, but now I've bought myself a headache for the morning.

It's 1:30 in the morning. I get a text. No one texts me this late.

"I don't suppose you'd be wroth with me if I came over, would you? Go hop in the bath like a good girl."

It's him. This is how he got called a wretch in the first place. The man allows me to fall almost to the bottom just to catch me, to get the adrenaline up, to make me feel the heights he brings me to that much more keenly.

I hurriedly hop in the bath and figure I have about 30 minutes to get pretty, the bath only takes up 5. Turns out he encouraged me to my usual routine of a bath beforehand so I wouldn't hear the door (he'd come sweaty, straight from the gym). As I walk into my bedroom he is there, the key I had given him being used for once.

I'm ready to cry in joy as I leap into my lover's arms, more intoxicated by him than by the alcohol still coursing in my veins. I grab his precious face and stare into his deep eyes and am once again astounded by the depth of feeling I have for this man, this wretch.

My hands fumble, grasping, tearing to get his clothes off. My towel has been long since discarded. My exuberance, made more intense yet less focused by the imbibing I've done that evening, is boundless. I cannot wait to touch, to taste every inch of him. To have him in my mouth, on my body, I'm already going mad with want.

His desires to be gentle or rough, fast or slow, lay in waste at the force of my insistence. There is no stopping. My passion and haste are catching and that wretch, that incredible man who has brought me to this sense of urgency and desperation, is more than capable of matching me and keeping up.

The flick of his tongue on my skin sends me reeling. The smell of him, of our sex fills me and delights me. I ride him with the skill of a courtesan, and the enthusiasm of Siren leading sailors to their doom. To feel him driving inside of me, to stare into his eyes and reach orgasm again and again, is ambrosia.

I'm sending a silent apology in my head to the neighbors as I cannot control the writhing, moaning pleasure I am immersed in. His name tears from my throat and it is a benediction, a cleansing, a cry of love and lust and need. We toss each other around the bed as in a stormy sea and cannot contain the power in the explosion between us. I tighten around him once more in bliss and he fills me with his own climax.

Sated, sweaty, unable to catch our breaths, we are found. We are whole once more and have found deliverance in each other's embrace. Passions cooling, he holds me in his arms and I am home.
He places a kiss upon my brow and squeezes me in surety. As I drift into slumber cradled on his chest, he brushes a stray strand of hair from my cheek as he softly wishes me a happy Valentines Day...

The mumbled reply: "You wretch".

 

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