You and I both know that instead of house-sitting for you, I should really have left with you this morning on vacation, occupying the next airplane seat over as you head off to dig the gorgeous Oregon coast. But it turned out I was scheduled to attend a dissertation defense smack in the middle of the week you had chosen, and you were unable to alter your plane tickets.
I would have been glad to see the dunes again. Unlike you, however, I've been there before. Mostly what I regret is our not being able to screw our asses off in a hotel room night after night. Still, there will be plenty of time for that sort of thing when you're home again. And since I, as a house sitter, am a freebie, there will be that much more mad money in your cookie jar for champagne, bubble bath and lingerie. I would offer to chip in for these, had you not already insisted that the weekend of your return be entirely your treat. Meanwhile I'm biding my time, looking forward to picking you up at the airport on Saturday and anticipating the events that will inevitably follow.
Today is Monday. We had a first-class farewell fuck yesterday evening after dinner; but since I had an early meeting today, and you had an even earlier flight, it was logical that I decided to spend the night at my place, near the university, while you opted to stay put and pack. We live forty-five minutes apart -- though we plan to do something about that soon -- and since you're on the same side of the city as the airport, you were able to arrange to have a neighbor take you there this morning, while I got ready for my appointment on campus.
So I haven't seen you since about 9 p.m. last night, when I kissed you goodbye in the master bathroom, after you'd treated me to the pleasure of watching your habitual, post-lovemaking piss. When you stood up from the commode to receive my kiss, your slight black panties were still at your ankles. They usually hug your crotch for only the briefest of intervals between fucking and peeing, and I sometimes wonder why you even bother to slip them on after sex. The erotic music of your private waterfall, which had concluded mere seconds earlier, was still resonating in my ears as we kissed.
It was the image of you smiling after me, your panties seductively at your ankles, that I kept with me on the long drive home. It was a smile full of promise, with a hint of mischief that I couldn't, for the moment, quite place. An hour later, when I got into my bed and you floated into my mind's eye, the vision of you that I saw still hadn't stepped out of the panties -- or pulled them back up. I shot hot love all over myself while nurturing that vision. Then I phoned to tell you I'd done so.
Now that it's afternoon, I'm free from further obligations at the university until Wednesday. It seems silly to have all this free time and not be off on vacation with you, but that's the way it goes.
Having finished my lunch, I've decided to get an early start on the light duties at your house. A lot of people would have just let their homes remain empty for a week . . . but you admit that you're neurotic where your houseplants are concerned. You specifically asked me to attend to them each and every day -- including today, since your flight was so early. Because your place is so far out of my way, you urged me to make myself completely at home for lounging and cooking and working. You told me I should even crash in your bed, if I don't want to drive back and forth unnecessarily. I am, after all, no stranger to your bed.
The word-processed note attached to the fridge reiterates, in compelling detail, everything you've already told me about the plants, the mail and the blinds (you've always claimed that your watercolors need to be protected from natural light at certain times of day). I smile at your endearing compulsiveness as I skim the redundant text. Then a hastily scrawled postscript catches my attention:
Ran out of time and didn't change sheets. Clean ones in linen closet.
I shrug and head for the watering can. I am about to fill it, when it dawns on me that there is something strange about your postscript regarding the sheets. You don't need to change the sheets for me -- the sheets your frenzied, bouncing, orgasmic body pinned me to less than twenty-four hours ago. You know this, and you know that I know this. Immediately, an explanation occurs to me. You are deliberately, slyly drawing my attention to the unchanged sheets, knowing that I will know why you are doing so. My hand trembles as I set down the watering can.
I take the stairs two at a time, so eager am I to reach your bedroom.
Once inside the room, I lower the blinds and undress completely. I lean my head down over your pillow and sniff. Shampoo. It smells yummy, almost edible . . . yet it isn't this I'm searching for.
I turn down the covers, mount the bed on all fours, and continue along the scent trail, down the length of the bottom sheet, until I find what I'm seeking -- the spot you have subtly directed me to, the spot where you masturbated this morning.
It smells like the essential, private you. En route, I have passed the appetizing, fruity scent of your hair, the refined, floral scent of your cologne, and the clean, tangy scent of your deodorant. But the scent I have tracked down is completely distinct from all of these. It is incomparably richer and grander . . . and more genuine. It is your most intimate scent -- the familiar, intoxicating aroma of your sopping, aroused cunt, a sharp, earthy, ultra-feminine essence that almost defies description but which connects directly to my most primal urges. It is a scent that, when you are present, unabashedly cries "Fuck me!" And now, though you are absent, your aroma is as fresh as it is pungent...as it is irresistible. I decide that you must have been pleasuring yourself immediately before leaving the house. Maybe your claim that you "ran out of time" was the grain of truth in your tricky little note.
The lingering smell of your juices has aroused me wildly. My nose presses lewdly into the joy-stained sheet, and I let my entire consciousness sink with it into olfactory paradise. I raise my chin just enough to begin licking your invisible but potently fragrant residue, and I begin to grind my manhood, with involuntary urgency, into your mattress. Soon I am clutching myself, and the delirious spasms erupt. It has taken me only moments to add my personal, elemental stain to your own.
Just as I am milking the last drops from my throbbing pump, I hear a noise on the stairs. Before I can even grab for the top sheet, you saunter in through the open bedroom door.
"I thought I'd find you here," you say, your eyes glinting.
I am delighted but perplexed. "Aren't you supposed to be on your way to Oregon?"
"Who's going to Oregon?" you reply.
You explain that when you learned I couldn't accompany you, you had secretly postponed the trip. The part about not being able to change the plane tickets had been a benign fib, and you've spent the past two weeks planning for this moment.
Your hands have been busy with zips and buttons while you've been telling me all this. By the time you have finished, you are as naked as I am. As you ease into the bed, I can see that your intimate zone is already glistening, and my sense of smell succumbs to the new wave of feminine essence that is coming to me, this time, directly from its pulsating source. You take my sticky cock in a tender grasp, knowing that though I have just gloriously creamed your cool sheets, I will soon enough be ready to cream your warm, oozing, boldly-aromatic love-hole. It was all part of your vacation plans, after all.
Originally published July 2006 - "Stripped, Anniversary Issue"