Counting

He counted his life, subdividing himself in syllables. Patterned, a certain order, like rhyme and verse, the world possessed a rhythm and it called his name. Joseph, two syllables, he liked the sound. "Jo...seph," he pronounced slowly, feeling himself roll languidly off his tongue.

Calligraphy added proportion to his name. Carefully he lettered, "Van Hauptman," then held his head back and looked at it. When written properly it had a regal appearance: "Joseph Van Hauptman," he repeated. It resonated off the mirror as he roughly dragged a razor over his face. It was strange watching Joseph Van Hauptman doing something as mundane as shaving, eating and yes, even fucking.

Suddenly becoming more, he laid down the razor, walked from the bathroom and then watched himself as he ran his hand over his wife's breast, lingering at the nipple, pinching the dark colored nub. In spite of his touch, she remained so quiet, so giving in her manner. He kissed her, letting his tongue mingle with hers, teasing it before pulling her tight to him and burrowing his tongue deep into her mouth.

He gasped for air, breathing hard into her mouth, watching her chest rise and fall with their shared breath. He kissed her neck and then traced downward, up the flattened mound of her breasts. Finding her nipple, he drew it into her mouth, toying with it, circling it with her tongue as he watched her face, gauging her response.

Pausing now, he looked down upon her, her breasts two small mounds on her chest, two nipples leaning off to the side. His saliva glistened on her, sparkling in the bright light. Letting his mind wander, he counted syllables, needing order, a distinct pattern. He recited his name, "Jo...seph Van Hauptman. I am Jo...seph Van Hauptman, Van Hauptman is me." There. . . there was some order, something he could grasp. It became a poem, an offbeat haiku of himself, complete in syllables.

Looking at her pale face, her two eyes staring distantly, he smiled and then returned to her breasts. Her skin was cool to his touch, so soft and limp as he continued kissing down her body, over her stomach and into the dark curly hair. Finding her lips, he ran his tongue down her fragrant cleft, dipping into her, circling slowly, tasting her.

Joseph moved closer to her as he pressed his cock over her breasts, feeling the stiff nipple fold under his soft skin. He ground himself on her, feeling her shift beneath him, his balls dragged over her flesh. He moved then, crawling around over her, moving his knees between her outstretched legs. He moved his cock to her opening, still wet from his mouth, and gently eased himself inside her.

Feeling the slightest warmth, he pressed deep into her loose folds, feeling her slowly open to him, as he leaned onto her, kissing her mouth. Feeling his passion rise, he breathed hard, watching her chest rise as he exhaled, seeing her skin jiggle as he rammed himself to the hilt, sensing her yield completely to him for the first time. His savage thrusts came in waves as he counted again, five hard ones, then seven softer, followed by five more hard thrusts. Closer and closer now, the pressure build up in his balls and then as he panted out loud, "...three, four, fiiivvvee..." he came, arching his back, pumping her full of his hot cum.

He collapsed, falling upon her cool body, his skin a light tan on her pallid gray. Catching his breath, he kissed her one more time and then slowly withdrew, using his hands to press her legs back together.

He'd been losing his mind, but he had a grip now and he would be fine. He repeated a haiku as he crawled over his wife's body and climbed off the bed. She lay still while he looked at her, still wet from him, and he pondered her. She was disorder, she lacked rhythm, rhyme, she was noise, disarray, and the sound and sight of her had ruined his count, his patterned life. Even now she disrupted his thoughts, lying there, naked, so quiet -- unsightly. He would need to clean her up. Even though he moved her legs together, his cum leaked out of her.

But first, he needed to write. He picked up the pen and carefully began his calligraphy. "Joseph Van Hauptman," he whispered. It looked so regal; it sounded so poetic. He wrote his haiku, pausing at each letter as the ink delicately soaked into her pale skin. There was so much more order now – now that she lay there so quietly.