Morning Call

I dreamed about you last night. You and I, sometime lovers whose paths now rarely cross, yet you were there in my sleep and I wanted you.

In my slumber I hear the phone ring. With an effort I stretch out my hand and pick up the phone. The bedside clock blinks 6.24. It is not yet light. Not yet six-thirty on a Saturday morning!

Who would . . . Oh, no. Panic. Not someone ill – or worse.

Then your voice, I always recognise it immediately, anywhere, even when I’m heavy with sleep. Another panic. You don't sound in trouble, but you always bear your problems stoically, no wearing your heart on your sleeve, but this time perhaps . . . A tiff with a lover maybe; you need a shoulder to cry on? I try to drag myself out of my muzzy half-asleep state. You want to come round? Now? To talk? But it is early morning, it's Saturday, no one is up at this time unless one has to be up, surely.

The penny drops. Of course, you've spent the night with someone. Huh! Slightly strange, as usually you take them back to your place, you don't all that often go to theirs. Come to think of it, though, you often spent the night here with me. You seemed to find it comfortable . . . with me. You used to come round during the day, too. Sometimes we would stick together with sweat; sometimes there was so much sweat that it lubricated our bodies as we ground together. We generated lots of other liquid which slicked those other places. No need for artificial supplements for us, not ever! But remember the scented massage oils? Crème de Menthe for you, Almond Essence for me. We had such fun with those!

Now it is rare for you to come round at any time. Perhaps I should feel honoured you have decided to come round. I am pleased, in spite of the hour. Yes, definitely, very pleased. Just like old times. I will get up and make some preparations – something to show that I am happy to see you, glad even at this unearthly hour.

At one time you had a key, but that was long ago. I set the door on the latch, it looks as though it is locked but a push will open it. I often used to leave the door that way when I expected you at night or in the early morning when you came off shift at the hospital, and I know you will try it without ringing the bell. Old times. I put out big fluffy towels in the bathroom. Green, your colour. I set out candles, some scented, and light them to guide your way to the bedroom. Where else.

The bottle of Champagne I always keep in the fridge I open and seal it with a stopper so it is ready for later, and together with two crystal flutes place them beside the bed. I slide back under the covers and wait. The duvet wraps around me and hugs me close. With the anticipation of your arrival and the warmth, the intimacy is sweet. I close my eyes and doze.

I hear the moment the outer door opens and you steal in. I pretend to still be asleep, but, of course, I have been awake from the moment you opened the door; all the time tracking your every move.

You do not call out when you enter the bedroom. I am facing away from you. I remain still, feigning sleep. I hear the rustle of clothing being removed. I hold my breath in anticipation.

Still you say nothing. You slip under the covers. You cuddle up to my naked body, moulding yourself to my back, every part of you touching every part of me. Your soft skin delighting me. Your hands roam over me, my back, my front. I breathe in your freshness, the fragrance of your hair, a trace of perfume.

I perceive another odour, quite unmistakable: sex. You've just been with someone! I wonder if it is a man or woman. Knowing your preferences, it could well be a woman. Just the thought of you being here is always arousing. Then your actual arrival increases my arousal. To realise that you have just had sex with someone and have now come to me, raises my excitement to long-forgotten heights.

I wonder if you just want comfort, companionship, or if you want sex, more sex, like the old times when you used to come round. You have not tried to hide the odour emanating from you, and you are doubtless aware that undressing has released these powerful scents and that I will have picked up on them. You want me to know. You want me to know that others think you are desirable, as though I could have any doubts about that.

Are you deliberately turning me on? Of course you are. How could I think otherwise. You are waiting for my reaction.

Your hands settle on my belly and then lower, find my mat triangle, and then fractionally further down you discover that my pretence at sleep is revealed as being just that, a pretence. That part of me betrays me. The touch of your hands is exquisite. I realise I have stopped breathing. I gasp for air.

Then you start the teasing as only you know how, just like you have done so many times in the past, often leaving me frustrated, but making me enjoy every second. Your teasing is, as ever, relentless.

My breathing becomes ragged, but today it is the tacit rule is that I continue the pretence of sleep.

When I start to gasp, you bite my shoulder, remembering that is my most sensitive spot, then when everything has gone beyond all possible pretence, you rake my back with your nails. My back arches and I cry out and only then do I admit to being awake and turn to you – then . . . then you keep me at my distance, holding me away and continue your remorseless teasing until perhaps just a touch, from you, from me, and . . .

I know anything is likely to be enough for me to lose control. You have always liked me losing control while under your influence. I often indulged you. I liked you taking the initiative, teasing me, making me wait. Power, I suppose. I vaguely wonder if you like doing that with your new lovers. Not a question I need to ask. That part of you hasn't changed. You like the domme role . . . sometimes.

Your hand captures mine and guides it between your legs. The moisture there is incredible. You force my fingers deeper so they are immersed in your wetness. This is not just wetness, it is the liquor of sex. I wonder if some of it is a man’s, your recent lover. Perhaps. No, not perhaps, certainly it must at least be mixed with another's saliva. If she’s come from a man, it will also be his raw shissom. Sex for you is hardly sex, is never complete, unless both yours and your lover's nether and facial lips meet and exchange fluids. You always maintained that the tongue was the most potent weapon in the sex armoury. You frequently proved it. Yours on mine, mine on yours, we were both equally obsessed.

You will want me to do something with my slicked fingers; you will have something in mind. Probably you will at least want me to suck them? Will you want to taste my fingers, to suck them? You will not have forgotten how much it excites me when you twirl your tongue round my fingers when they’ve been inside you. Will you want to transfer your wetness to between my own legs? Perhaps you will want all three, you know I won't object, that I will relish whatever you decide.

For the moment you just want more. You are keeping my hand there, rhythmically pushing my fingers into you. I take up the cadence, no longer needing your guidance. Your hand remains over mine, barely touching, supervising my movements, ready to take over should I falter. I won't. There will come a moment, though, when either you will guide one of my fingers to your most sensitive spot, or you will slip your own fingers under mine and I will feel you take command of the final charge to the end of the rainbow, where that most personally rapturous of all crocks of gold awaits you.

Our two hands become one. Which finally does what ceases to matter. They combine to take you to where you want to go, your Nirvana. The one, the other – they both meld then melt into you. They, you, your fingers, mine, are one.

Your palpable and unmistakable pleasure becomes my own. At this moment your needs are greater than mine. You have satisfied me by your arrival, by being here, by coming. My turn can come later. For the moment you are satisfied and that for me, for now, is all I need. I have shared in your pleasure, I have been able to give of myself to you. I am satisfied. I am content with the warm, enveloping glow that pervades me.

If you look you will see the smile on my face.

For now I want and need nothing more.

The Champagne? Forgotten and not required.

Finis