Too Long Without Touch



It woke him during the night, a flex from it throwing him on to his
back, and he knew it was time again for her to visit.  They had not
seen each other for almost a year.  He did not own a picture of her,
but that didn't matter.  Movies of her spun in his mind everyday: her
laughter, her screams, the sweat that would pool in her navel, her
nipples gliding along his chest.

It was not only the sex, although it had reclaimed them both. 
Sometimes, dozing on the front porch of his farmhouse, the air thick
and still and thunderstorms forming in the west, he could feel her
hair and breath on his face and he would wake with a start, only to
find open fields and a few large oaks heavily bearded with spanish
moss.  Other times he devoted entire days to her, saying aloud:
"Everything I do is for you."  At the end of these days he would walk
two miles to a large pond on his property, strip out of his crusty
workshirt and handsewn jeans and burn them.  After rinsing himself in
the warm, brown water, he would walk naked in the fading light back to
his dark house, his monstrous appendage bouncing from knee to knee
with each step.  The rest of the night he would roam his unlighted
rooms unclothed, his hands finally able to grant him a shuddering
release, an ragged ivory arc reflecting moonlight.

He had met her at a dark crossroad for them both.  The fields lay
exhausted. He had left enough food for the horses, chickens and cows
to last them for a while and had said goodbye to each of them.  They
had been fine company, but loneliness crushed him to dust.  He had
tried to live with people, to have a woman love him.  They only saw
his freakish tube of flesh.    ore this he had put the gun barrel in
his mouth and with his right thumb pulled the trigger, surprised when
it sounded like more of a snap than a click.  Then he loaded a hollow
point into the chamber and stuffed it into his belt.  Pulling his coat
tight and latching the gate, he walked down the red clay road under a
cloudy gray sunset toward the river.

He left the road and wove along a narrow trail through woods thick
with pine and scrub oak.  The trail ended at clearing by the
riverbank.  Turning to his right, he spotted her lying by the river. 
Walking closer, he saw her bare pale arms hanging partially submerged
in the water, each slashed lengthwise from the wrist, red open mouths
pouring the soundless song of her life in to the current.  His fingers
on her throat felt a faint pulse, and her breath was steady but
shallow.

Using pieces of his ripped shirt stemmed the bleeding and picked her
up.  She was not tall, and her body was generous and hard.  He carried
her without stopping back to his home, setting the girl down softly on
a bed in a room he never used.

He stitched her together and nursed her back to health but left her
alone most of the time.  Three times a day, 7 a.m., 12 noon and 6
p.m., he brought a tray of food in for her.  Always he found her
asleep, and always he checked her breathing to make sure she was still
alive, like he used to do with puppies and foals when he was a boy. 
Attached to the room was a bathroom with a tiny shower, and when he
heard her use it, he quickly left the house.  Three weeks passed
before she came out of the room.

They spoke briefly at first, names and small talk and thanks from her,
but then he thanked her and she asked why and he nodded to the large
wooden picnic table in the front room.  On it waited a gun, unloaded
but a reminder.  She glanced at it, and when she looked to him again,
he had disappeared out the back door.

They spent the next few weeks like this, each time more spoken until
one time after talking in circles he mummbled something about the barn
and she touched his hand and asked him not to leave and he didn't.  It
began to fill.  She noticed it, and he stepped away from her, but she
gripped his arm with both hands and would not let him go.

He remembered how she understood his misfit limb and took him in,
every bit, not judging, just being and caring.  Wanting to please, as
if her body was made for it.  Caring for him, caring for it, something
no one had ever in his life done.  She did not treat him like a
monster, an aberration, some disgusting experiment.  She held him and
it with equal, unending affection, and drinking his jolts of
appreciation in huge, quenching gulps as she challenged her body to
take him.

It jerked again with the thought of all of him being inside her at
last, that memory of the first time searing like a fresh burn, and the
stretching head of it landed with a slap against his bare sternum. 
Beads of sweat rose and the light wind from the fan on his dresser
cooled him.  He arched his back slightly and it tightened and lifted
itself, darkening, toward the ceiling.  His hands stayed pressed
against the bed. Curling his face toward it, he stuck his tongue
inside the hole and licked out a knuckle of pre-cum.  No.  I'll save
it for her, he thought.  She's on her way.

###

"Sticking with it, huh?" her husband asked from the doorway.

She did yoga and lifted weights next to the Lexus and the Suburban in
the garage. Her ample body was not made for jogging.  Clean bicycles,
two adult's, two children's, hung from hooks in the ceiling.  A
pegboard above a pristine workbench held handtools grouped according
to use and then by size.

"Yep," she said with a grunt, lifting the bar off her shoulders, over
her head, placing it on the floor after a set of squats and sitting on
a folding chair.  "Been three weeks now."  She spoke with a slight
lisp.  "Every other morning."

"Thank you for being quiet," her husband kidded.  "I'm making waffles
for the boys and me.  You have time for some?"

Waffles.  Her favorite.  "I've gotta pack and go."

"Already did it for you.  I figured you were running late."

She smiled at him.  "Then I have time.  Thank you."

"My pleasure."  He shut the door.

I owe him, she thought.  He found a destroyed life.  I couldn't even
kill myself the right way.  A train wreck of years.  Something no
human would love.  He taught me how to be a person again.  If he had
not found me and led me back to my soul, I would have none of this. 
Not that fabulous man for my husband, my wonderful children, my job,
this home, not any of it, not even my life.  I owe it all to him.  The
lie is worth it.

She remembered those weeks in bed, drifting in and out of sleep and
nightmares, wrung dry from exhaustion and abuse.  He must have changed
her dressings while she slept.  Trays loaded with pancakes or
sandwiches or steak and potatoes or cake appeared at a small table by
her bed.  Sometimes a blue porcelain pitcher of whole milk.  Always a
sweating green glass one of ice cold water.

She took her water bottle, slick with moisture, in both hands.  In a
few hours she knew she would be holding him like that.

Once while he slept that first night she measured him.  Sitting up,
untangling herself from the twisted sheets and sweat in which they'd
collapsed, she lined his cock against her leg and found it to be the
length of her shin from ankle to knee and nearly as big around.  Still
sore and aching from earlier but not caring, she nudged it with her
knee, then leaned forward to run her hands lightly along its length,
and then finally licked the thick ridge of the head.  It woke him and
he smiled, and he grew, and she pulled the sheet over them.

She had amazed herself, yet still felt proud for taking all of him. 
After four tries she had finally taken him all in.  It had forced her
to seek new passages to rooms holding treasures, to explore control
and surrender and discover forgotten cavities within her.  It showed
her that at least to this man she was wanted and trusted and
beautiful. From this she could build a strong ship of self and sail to
other oceans, other lands.

She found she could fit the turgid head in her mouth and remembered
the first time she sucked him.  Any physical affection had been so
rare for him, and cum rumbled through him, filling her mouth almost
instantly.  Despite staying with him, licking and swallowing, it
overflowed in thick, swift streams.  Warm, apple-scented rivers poured
across her collarbone, sheeted her ponderous breasts, waterfalled over
her nipples. The waves reached her dense pubes, washing through them
and swirling against her lighthouse clitoris, breaking her in to
orgasm.  She painted his juice on her, using his cock as a brush.

She felt herself become wet and parted her knees and reached between
her legs.  Stopping and gripping her knees, she waited for a few
moments and then lifted the barbell over her head and did more squats
until her legs became jelly, imagining him below her.  Soon, she
thought, soon.

###

She drove up the gravel path to his home close to sunset, her windows
down and the air thick with the scent of straining chlorophyl and
dripping orange blossoms.  On the way there she had called her husband
and told him she was tired and would call him tomorrow after her
all-day onsite meeting.  Then she spoke to each of her boys and told
them she loved them and have a good sleep and then to her husband
again and told him she loved him more than anything in the world.

He had been sitting at the picnic table looking out the window, a book
going unread at his side.  Through the thinly curtained windows the
farmhouse glowed with a spare yellow light.

They met at the door.  He opened it as she raised her hand to knock.

It didn't matter that he wasn't what you'd call handsome, she thought,
in a clean denim shirt and the hand-sewn jeans, graying more now, his
face a dry dirt road traversing years of hard work and bad weather,
his body a misshapen boulder.

Seeing her peeled a murky film from his eyes.  From the V of skin
formed by her open blouse he felt waves of heat.

"You can go," he said.  "You know that."

"I've always known it."

She reached both arms up and around his shoulders and rested her
fingers softly on the nape of his neck.  As she pulled him in to a
kiss, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, then
tighter.  Her tongue pushed and searched for familiar places and his
sucks guided her.  Then she felt it pressing against her knee.  He
shut the door.

"Let's go," she said.

With a slight limp, he led her by the hand to his bedroom.  It was as
she remembered it, dark and clean and clutter-free, spare with
everything in its place, just like the rest of his house, a testament
to an unexpected monastic life.  She felt her knees soften and
anticipation somersault in her belly when she saw above the
queen-sized bed the handles he had bolted in the ceiling, this year
wrapped in new pink padding.

They undressed each other hurriedly, their minds leapfrogging, fingers
fumbling but persistent.  He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed. 
She slipped out of her bra and pushed down her skirt and plain white
underwear with one quick sweep.  His body twisted at an odd angle,
left leg straight.  Seeing his strained mask of concentration, she
quickly unbuttoned his pants and with three hard tugs set it free.

His sharp, quick inhalation tore the silent room like paper.  He
squeezed his eyes tightly and white-knuckle gripped the bed as his
dick flexed above him, purple and yearning.  She watched his chest
rise and fall with several quick breaths, then slow, then calm, the
late light through the window washing shadows across his torso. 
Standing at last, he winked at her.

He helped her step between it and him. They smiled while she wiggled
her ass cheeks around it.  She leaned back slightly as if it were a
chair and hugged his legs with hers.  He did likewise against her
weight, each holding up the other.  Outside, western trees swallowed
the sun, and fireflies blinked toward an anticipated group rhythm. 
Lifting her chin, she closed her eyes as his thumbs traced circles
across her nipples.

He heard music with her, distant and thundering performed on
instruments yet to be invented.  His skin learned to feel again, and
his hands and tongue and lips with memories of their own returned to
her favorite places.

Her exhalations told him her position in her journey.  Small clouds of
sound escaped from her, but only at the end was she vocal.  It
strengthened against her back and she reached behind her with one hand
while pulling him closer with the other.  She licked his ear then
whispered in to it, "I want to feel you inside me, ripping me apart. 
I want you to burst me with your cum."

Shaking his head, he fell backwards with her on to the bed.  "Not
yet."

The fall made her giggle, and he smiled, the first one since her last
visit.  They parted and she spun and held it.

"I adore this glorious cock of yours," she said.  She ran her
fingertips across it, and her lips left a shining trail down its
length.  "It is a work of art.  You should be proud.  It is a
wonderful testament to you."
  Her tongue wrote the alphabet up the shaft.  As his breathing became
quicker and his grip on her hair tighter, she stopped and gazed up at
the head, its tightness, the spiralling pencil-thick veins.

"God, I love it so."  She pushed her heavy tits around to encircle it,
and took the head in her mouth, madly bobbing upon it, tongue
searching for every pore it could reach.  She fondled his apple-sized
balls, feeling them tremble and pull.

Standing, she left a long kiss at the top of its head, sticking her
tongue down his cum hole to taste the rising jism.  She grabbed the
handles.

Her grip squeaked the padding.  He wanted her around him, but first he
dipped his head between her legs, carving her name in the soft butter
of her sweet pussy.  First in lower case, tongue pointed and delicate,
eliciting slight moans.  Then in upper case, broad flat strokes
forcing animal grunts and rough grinds against his unshaven face. 
Finally in cursive, a randomly flourish of the two.  Her legs began to
quiver and tense; her breathing became erratic and deep.  Quietly he
lay on his back and guided his hard pole up to her.  When he touched
her swollen, dripping lips with it, she shivered and held her breath.

Relax on to it, she told herself.  Melt over it, she visualized. 
Become warm chocolate.  Bit by bit she reacquainted her body with his
mass.  Slowly her cunt muscles stretched and relented and allowed him
to pass, and then they embraced him.  Her legs bent deeply.  Her arms
straightened.  Pass the cervix, in to her womb and beyond.  She sensed
every slight equation, every notch, every curve, every pulsing vein
marking the trip his iron, ripe cock made through her body,
rearranging its contents to set her free in a blinding rush of cum and
nerves and lust and spirit.  But not yet.

With each passage on to him she now permitted a soft cry to escape. 
Sweat beaded on her and pooled inside her elbows and at her hips,
trickling.  Blonde hair matted, darkening between her shoulder blades.
 He began to twitch inside her.  Though her eyes remained shut, she
knew she had almost all of him. Arms and legs shaking, only her
fingers remained on the handles.  When she felt his hands cup her
breasts, fingers squeezing nipples, she opened her eyes.

He saw that her eyes held the clearness of a newborn, searching and
amazed.  He had driven his heels in to the mattress and gripped her
ankles and calves during his journey in to her. Pulling up his legs
and bracing himself, he lowered her. She frantically locked her arms
behind him and pressed her face to his chest, her sweat cooling him. 
Her hips began to rock. Now, he thought.

"Let me fill you," he said.

"Yes.  Come now.  Fill me up.  I want to feel your sweet hot cum
flowing in me and out of me."

Slightly at first, almost timidly, she began.  Against her he matched
her shy grinding.  Their sounds grew louder as they became stronger. 
He clutched her, and they violently forged themselves together.  Great
prehistoric machines exploded in his head.  Bristling towers of
lightning crashed along her spine.  All movements raced toward
release.  They vaguely heard the wet skin rhythm of their fucking
echoing in the room.  A primodrial groan ripped from him and he
stiffened.  She answered with a high formless cry, legs flailing,
seeking a lost ground.  Creamy rapturous jolts flowed between them.

She waiting until the heaving spasms of spunk subsided, booming like a
bass drum against, it seemed, her heart, each one triggering another
shuddering wave through her.  Then she broke from their embrace and
reached to his balls where she took a handful of jettisoned jizz.

She smeared it on to his chest and then rubbed her tender tits across
it.  He grabbed another handful.

"Suck it off," he said.

"Love to, my dear."  She hungrily licked his hand clean.  "Your cum is
so sweet.  I could live on it.  It has given me life."

"Let me taste it from you."

She produced a glob on her tongue.  They kissed deeply and hard,
sharing and dissolving mouthfuls between them.  While kissing, one of
his hands went to a sticky nipple, the other, lubed with their juice,
to her ass.  He ran his slippery fingers along her crack.

"Yes," she said.  "Whatever you want."

With that, he pushed her up and inhaled her left breast, beating his
tongue against the nipple.  He reached behind her and massaged her
asshole with cum-soaked fingers and thumb.

"Harder, my dear.  I'll take what you give me."

With more jism and spit he was able to wiggle four fingers inside her
bung hole, far enough that he could feel himself on the other side. 
The other breast now received the wet attention of his tongue and
lips.

"Oh God harder please harder harder harder.  I need you to fill me. 
Oh God oh God I want to come with you again."

He felt himself stiffen and pulse once more inside her, his cock's
thick head pushing rhythmically against some membrane deep within her.
 With her arms pressing his chest, glistening tits slapping his face,
she rode him while her asshole gobbled his fingers.  Soon all four
entered to the knuckles, and she could take no more.

His balls began quivering for round two.  The sight of her, so
thouroughly impaled upon him, her gaping pussy, her willing ass,
swinging her nipples against his rough chin, rocking on him and
whimpering in both ecstacy and pain, "More, I want more of you oh God
I love you I love your beastly beautiful cock", finally served to be
too much.  Again, torrents of cum blasted through him.  Again, she
shrieked through her thunderous orgasm.  Again, they shared the taste
of their juice and jism.

But afterwards, at last, they slept, allowing the sweet glue that
binded them to dry, their skin becoming one.  When his dick shrank to
its normal size, she openned one eye, wrapped her leg around his butt
so he would not pull out, and went back to sleep.

###

Two days later he walked her to the front door.  Time had only been
measured in urges and rest.  They had unwrapped themselves earlier
that morning, before dawn, and showered.  While she dressed he made
breakfast and packed a sandwich for her.  Little was said.

"You can say it," he said.  "If this is it, I'll understand."

"Don't be a fool."

"A year?"

"Maybe sooner."

"Good."  He looked down at his feet like an embarrassed schoolboy. 
She held his stubbled chin and lifted it.

"You OK?  You know, I can stay longer if you want."   

"No.  No, thank you.  You have to get back to your family."

"It's because of you that I have them."

"Don't let that get out."

A male and female cardinal braided the air above the lawn and lighted
on a nearby tree, the male's song golden pebbles falling on crystal.

"You're OK."

"Yes.  Are you?"

"Yes, yes.  Of course.  Terrific.  Thank you."

"Then go."  

 From the front porch he watched her get in to her car, back out on to
the road and drive off.

She composed herself by the time she reached the highway.  No one
answered the phone at the house, which she thought was just as well,
and she left a message for her husband to let him know she was on her
way home.

He shut the door to his bedroom and placed the gun on the picnic
table.  Then he went to the barn and then to the fields.  It pulsed
against his leg, aching and heavy, rising.  He spoke the words of
devotion, sliding a Zippo in to his pocket.  The sun had not yet
climbed too high, and he did not expect to return until dark.