Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Kimmydon Week 25: Revealing


Picture 1

Picture 2

Kimmydon's Choice: Both


I felt a little nervous stepping out into Peter’s garage. I took off my shoes there, not wanting to drag mud through his house. Then I pulled off my jacket at the door.

“Maybe you should just hose me off outside,” I suggested with a grin.

He laughed. “That sounds like a terrible idea.” He pulled off his jacket and shirt.

I stopped, staring for a moment at his bare chest, then his bare back as he pulled off his shoes. They were ruined, I noticed, bending to them.

He straightened suddenly, nearly clipping my chin with his head. “What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed.

“Your shoes,” I moaned.

He pulled me up, kicking off the remaining shoe. “They’re old. I expected they wouldn’t stay clean. Don’t worry.”

I met his eyes and found truth. He wasn’t saying it to appease me. Then I noticed his chest again and licked my lips, nervous.

“No pressure,” he urged me. “There are two bathrooms. You can have the one down here, if you like.”

It took a moment for me to look up at him, but when I did, I smiled broadly. “That sounds like a terrible idea,” I mimicked.

He chuckled, but not for long, as I continued my imitation of him, removing my own muddy shirt and following with the pants. Standing in my underwear, I felt goosebumps break out all over me.

I gave him at least a full minute to stare. I kept my hands at my sides for the first twenty seconds before crossing them over my pert nipples. They showed dark through the lacy fabric of my bra, but I tried not to be embarrassed; he certainly wasn’t declining the show. Still, it was not warm in the garage. “Shower. Hot. Now.” I got cranky when I got cold.

He snapped up suddenly. “Yes, mistress.”

What? I looked over my shoulder for a minute, wondering if he was talking to someone else.

“Ma’am,” he said, trying to imply that was what he’d said the first time. I was sure it wasn’t, but I still couldn’t understand what he’d meant, so I let it go. Mistress? Who called someone Mistress? That was so... old fashioned. I didn’t get it.

He was still blushing pink as he picked me up. I squeaked, not expecting it. Laughing, I said aloud, “I can manage the stairs.”

He shook his head and put me down on the landing. “Of course. Although, now, I’ve carried you over the threshold.”

I missed the step I’d been aiming for, landing on my ass.

“Are there any other surprises you’d like to spring on me, Peter?” I asked. “Being that I’m on the ground, they can’t hit me any harder.” I looked up at him. I’d kept my tone light, teasing, but I was actually kind of serious. First calling me mistress, whatever that was about, and then implying he’d married me... I was literally as well as figuratively floored.

“Sarah’s my sister,” he blurted. “I’ll get you a robe.”

He disappeared up the stairs. I didn’t move from my rump on the carpet. At least it wasn’t the lino; that crap was cold on my toes and I was chilled enough. I was heating nicely with a bit of ire as I puzzled through that last dump of info.

Sarah was his sister. Was she still around? She didn’t live here. Or if she did, she wasn’t home now. I was pretty sure she wasn’t here, ever. That expression, downtown, that wasn’t the face of a brother who wondered where his wayward sister was. It was one of mourning, of remembrance. She was gone.

I didn’t have time for more before Peter scooped me up again. I was quietly impressed; I wasn’t small or light, but he didn’t grimace, although I could tell he was happy to set me on the couch. He turned on a gas fireplace and pulled a robe of his own on, having left one on my legs.

He lifted my feet and sat with them in his lap. Pulling off my slightly muddy socks, he held my cold toes. His hands were warm, and helped me relax.

“Sarah was three years older than me,” he said, looking at the fire, not at me. “She was wild, untamed. No one could hold her back. No one could stop her.” The gleam in his eye froze and his voice choked a little. “No one but fate, and me.”

It took a lot of control, but I didn’t interrupt, and I didn’t console. I waited. A moment later, his head rose again, looking once more into the flames.

“She would sneak out at night. She’d used that damn tree to get back in, jumping to the roof.”

The roof. Something clicked. It wasn’t his safe place.

“I’d often wait for her up there, when I knew she’d gone out. She’d let me smoke with her,” he said with a snort. “She was a rebel. God, I love her. I wanted to be as wild as her, but I never had the nerve. I was too worried about what other people thought, what Mom and Dad thought.” His lips twisted in a grimace. “Wasted concern there,” he muttered.

I wanted to stop him, to scold him for doing his parents such a disservice after their deaths, but I couldn’t. I was rapt, barely breathing and listening to him.

“One night, I wasn’t there. She slipped off the roof.” His voice broke and he let go of my feet to hold his face. “She... She..” He tried several times, always choking on the words.

I sat up, pulling him to me, resting his head on the terrycloth of the robe. “You told me. She died. She fell... and died?” I confirmed, not wanting him to have to say it.

He sniffled and nodded against my breast. “In the mud.”

I froze in the middle of stroking his hair. The mud. The mud that was in his hair, on my hands, the socks on the floor.

“Oh, God, Peter. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have.”

He looked up, gripping my shoulders. “No, don’t. It was good.” Tears still streaked his cheeks, but his eyes were clear now, vibrant. I was held by them. “Don’t you see? You’ve moved me past.” He chuckled once. “Well, started to, anyway.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle too; he had a long way to go before catching frogs and making mud pies. “Tell me more?” I asked, taking his hands in mine.

He smiled sadly, lifting me by the hands and leading me up the stairs. He stopped at the pictures I’d only half-noticed my last time here.

“Here we are. I’m five in this one, Sarah eight.” London’s skyline stretched out behind them. It almost seemed whichever parent had taken this was more interested in the architecture than the children. Still it was easy to see the punk style of Sarah, with her short blond hair spiked out, wearing a tie around her forehead. Eight, he’d said. I would have guessed her eleven. He looked five, and happy.

The next was his parents. “This was their twentieth anniversary. There’s Grandma Netty, and that’s Grandpa Dave. He passed a few years ago. And Grandma and Grandpa Strauss. They live in France. I wish I could visit them more often,” he said with a sigh.

He led me up a few more stairs. This photo was taken in Paris. “Visiting Grandma and Grandpa?” I asked, smiling.

He smiled too. “Yep. As usual, Dad was trying to get the tower, but there’s Sarah. Mom was furious she’d colored her hair black.” He laughed suddenly. “It’s only because the green she was trying to dye it didn’t turn out. So she covered it in black. God, what would Mom have done if Sarah had flown to France with green hair?” He sighed, obviously remembering.

I looked at the photo. It was her back. He was right, his father was shooting the tower beyond her. I looked to the next and smiled brightly. “Graduation?” I asked pointing.

He sneered. “I keep meaning to take that down.”

I stopped smiling once squared with the photo. Peter was beautiful, as he always was. I could see the sorrow in his eyes though. “This wasn’t long after...”

He shook his head. “Only eight months. You can tell?” he asked.

I nodded. “It’s not obvious, but I’ve seen you smile. This line,” I pointed, touching the glass, “isn’t in it, and your eyes are... too cold,” I finished. I looked to his parents now and was even more deeply saddened.

Peter’s mother was obviously the source of his good looks. She could have easily graced the cover of a magazine, even in her thirties. His father was good looking, darker than his mother or himself, slightly gray. His father’s eyes were glassy, even in the photo. He had been drinking. Celebrating maybe? It seemed to sad for that. And his mother’s mouth was too tight as well. This was obviously a grieving family.

“Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you and fuck your booze.” Peter stamped up the last of the stairs and opened and closed a door.

I looked back at the photo, wanting to offer their spirits something. “It had to be hard, losing a daughter. I’m sure you didn’t find it easy, staying together and raising a son. But you did a great job.” My voice cracked a little, thinking about the man who might still hear me. “He is a good man. He works hard and treats his friends and coworkers well. It is a shame you aren’t here to see him, but he is. He is a fine man. One you should be proud of."

The door opened again, and Peter’s mud streaked head popped out. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” I said moving to his side, closing the door behind us. “Thank you for letting me in. Thank you for sharing with me. Thank you for being the man you are.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and moved to my toes to kiss him.

His arms were quick to find my waist, pulling me up even as he bent down, his tongue eager on my mouth. He broke to murmur, “I love you so much, Beth.”

I inhaled, taking the words with the air, holding them, letting them setting in me. Then I exhaled. “I love you, too.” My voice was quiet, but not so that he couldn’t hear.

His hands pulled the tie of my robe, his fingers finding the skin over my panties. Following his lead, I opened his robe, running my hands up over his chest as we continued to kiss.

Only when I felt the damp tip of him on my belly did I start, stepping back. He wasn’t wearing underwear. How had I not noticed that?! I looked down, at myself, then back up at him.

He was looking down. “No pressure.”

“Well, that will make showering difficult,” I teased. “You need water pressure for a good shower.”

He grinned, pulling me by the fabric of the robe. “Can I get you dirtier first?” he whispered in my ear.

“No,” I declared, pushing him back again. This caused him to hit the bed and sit down on it.

He looked up at me, confused but still excited.

“I’m going to clean you up first.” Sinking to my knees before him, my eyes feasted on his length. It was framed in blond curls, darker than those on his head, coarser. I ran the fingers of one hand through them while the other slid up his thigh.

“Beth, you don’t have to-”

“Shhhh,” I hushed him, taking the base of his shaft in my hand, the other still combing his hair and cupping his balls. I rubbed them gently as I stroked.

I watched his reactions. First in his groin, the tendons rising as he tensed, his balls moving against my hand. Then in his face, the way his eyes opened and closed, the way he sucked through his teeth and went slack-jawed. His eyes blazed on mine, passionate fire in them. I didn’t let him take control back though. I had him in the palm of my hand, and I was keeping him there.

When he moved to pull me up, I kissed the tip of him, causing his hands to tighten rather than pull. I settled back a little, licking along him, tasting salt sweat, and clean skin - soft skin over the hardness.

I hadn’t given head often, but I had never wanted to as much as now. I took the head into my mouth, sliding very slightly.

He winced. “Teeth,” he whispered.

I released him instantly from my mouth, still holding him in my hand. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, cupping my cheek. “Just letting you know. It didn’t hurt.”

I saw no lie on his face and smiled, planning to try again.

“You don’t-” His words cut off as I went down on him. My lips, wetter now, slid more easily, further. I sighed on him, feeling him on my tongue.

He groaned when I sighed; it made me smile. That made him twitch. I thought of how completely I held him, how much he was mine.

How much was he mine?

“Peter?” I asked, stroking his length slowly in my hand. He didn’t answer except to hum. “Are we... What are we?”

“I’m yours,” he said simply, his voice husky and breathless. “All yours.”

I liked that. It was answer enough. I put my mouth around him again, pushing down with my hand as I took him deeper over my tongue. My throat closed as he neared the back, and I felt his hands in my hair, pushing it away to hold my face.

“Shit, Beth, that’s good.” His cussing made me want to try for more, but I knew I would gag soon. I took a breath and tried anyway. His hands on my face guided me, but didn’t push, in fact he stopped me, holding me in place. I sighed, feeling safe with him.

“Crap, Beth.” Apparently the sigh did good things to him. I felt him move in my mouth, which did elicit a slight gag. I pulled back, stroking him again.

“That needs to come off,” he said, reaching into my robe and unfastening my bra. Lifting his hands, the robe fell from my shoulders, and I dropped him long enough to slip it from my arms. He pulled my bra away at the same time. “Damn, you’re beautiful,” he told me, pulling me up.

“But... I wasn’t finished,” I complained.

“Neither was I,” he agreed, holding the base of himself to rub lightly on the inside of my thigh. It made me tingle and gasp. His other hand slipped into my shorts style panties and cupped my ass, which tensed at his touch. “So nice,” he said, fondling me gently, his thumb running the crease of my ass.

I swayed a little on my feet, suddenly a lot less stable. “Peter, I...” My voice sounded huskier than usual, deeper.

“Yes, Beth?” he asked, his mouth finding my breast from my collar bone. He was kissing the inside slope as he rubbed my thigh once more.

“Are you... “ I couldn’t think straight. What this man did to me. I knew there was something I need to ask for, but what? “Do you...” Each question was ended in a pant and a tug of his hair. My fingers had gravitated there, of course.

The mud streaked locks were still pliable and I had pulled them in any number of directions. God, he looked good, natural, not putting on any show, no facade, just Peter, naked before me. My mind gave up the fight and I held his face to my chest.

His hand came up to the waist of my panties, the other dropping himself to join it, sliding them down my legs. I hissed at the exposed feeling as they came away. I stepped out of them carefully, holding him to keep my balance. He was looking down at me. I did, too.

Brazilians weren’t normally my thing, but after the stinging subsided, I loved how tender my skin was, how soft. It had been a test, for today, when today came. Up until now, I’d trimmed when I knew someone would be poking down there, doctor or boyfriend, but I wanted to go an extra step this time. I hadn’t regretted it the first night I touched ‘speedy petey’ to myself, and as his fingers touched my lips, brushing them without spreading them, I didn’t regret it now.

“Peter,” I moaned, tugging his hair again.

With a growl, he grabbed me by the waist and swung me onto the bed. He pivoted, coming to rest between my knees. I shook with anticipation. His hands ran up my stomach, over my ribs and chest. “Goddamn beautiful,” he muttered, his fingers brushing my pointed peaks, making me arch slightly.

“You are,” I returned, still not able to think properly.

“I seem to have found another way to shut that wise mouth of yours. Like this?” he asked, blowing across the sensitive skin between my legs.

I shuddered at the sensation. He still hadn’t touched me there, and I was ready to melt. I couldn’t find words, but guttural sounds escaped me as his lips brushed my waxed ones.

“Your smell,” he moaned. I watched his blue eyes close where the peeked over my pubic bone. My eyes closed immediately after as the tip of his tongue parted my lips.

“Oh God!” I half-screamed, hands latching onto his locks.

“Unnngh,” he groaned, his tongue jumping on my skin. His voice was muffled, but I made out, “Pulling, shit.”

He liked me pulling his hair? Well, that was good, because I wasn’t letting go. I didn’t think my fingers would open right now if I tried. They tightened, in fact, as I lifted my hips and thighs, opening myself for more of his kisses and licking.

“Your tongue, fuck, Peter. That’s...” I was usually pretty articulate. I occasionally had difficulty finding the word I needed, but nothing like this. It was like all nouns, all adjectives had flown away, leaving only verbs behind. Lick. Kiss. Touch. Tug. Thrust. Fuck.

I must have been muttering some of these because I heard Peter’s muffled voice again. “You want to fuck?” he asked lightly, teasing. “Are you sure? You don’t want more of this?” His fingers were inside me, and now he rubbed them against the edge, drawing them out slowly. I cried out, tugging his hair again as my legs twitched.

“No... No stop.” I didn’t care if I made sense or not, my hips would tell him what I wanted, they were already thrusting against his hand.

“Yes, Beth,” he murmured, sliding up my side, his lips stopping at my nipple as his thumb took the place of his tongue. He kissed the dark, puckered point, flicking that agile tongue over it. I clenched in response, shuddering on his fingers.

“Damn...” I groaned, feeling the heat swelling as my legs moved of their own accord, twisting and tilting. “God.”

“Come for me,” he whispered, kissing my neck, which was still relatively clean. Most of the mud was on my face and hands.

One second of thought for the mud on his hands struck me, but it couldn’t last. It felt too good.

He noticed my pause though, a question crossing his face just before I pulled his face to mine, kissing him. My tongue fought its way into his mouth as I continued to pin his fingers.

He moaned against my mouth. “I want to feel that,” he mused, moving his fingers very slightly.

“I want to feel that,” I said, taking a hand from his hair and wrapping it around him again. “Shit, how I want to feel it. Will you? Do you?” I couldn’t complete a thought if my life depended on it.

“I’m going to...” he complained, his face tightening, his chest was next, his arms. All of him tensed up and I realized that I’d touched at just the right, or just the wrong time, depending on the goal. I slid my thumb up, encouraging the coming reaction, wanting to see him lose everything on me. I wanted to see Peter.

“Shit,” he cussed as the thick liquid hit my belly, warm. I kissed him again, stroking lightly. He gasped, shaking beside me. “That... that... Don’t...” I held him, grinning at him. He was literally in the palm of my hand. I squeezed just to prove it to myself.

He groaned and closed his eye. “Beth. I...”

I kissed his forehead. “I’m teasing. How about that shower now?”

“Yeah, I seem to have added to the mess.”

“Wasn’t that the idea?” I asked, remembering the threat to make me dirtier.

He laughed, covering his eyes with a hand. “I suppose it was. Come on,” he said, rolling over me. I pursed my lips at the feel of his skin sliding over mine, the warmth of his body so close, the mechanics of sharing a bed. I loved this man more than I realized. I wanted to share this bed. I didn’t want to go home.

I was home.