The Waiting Game

I don’t want to sound boring, but my evenings are generally very similar. There is always some variation, of course. What I eat, phone calls I make or receive, programmes I watch on TV. Where I walk Luna, my dog. You know, general stuff that gives a modicum of individuality to each 24 hour period. But basically, to all intents and purposes, my evenings are similar.

Come to that, most of my days are pretty much the same, too. Some days I work, which helps to give meaning to my weeks. But that is really just a drudgery. The commute from home to factory, the same job that I have done for years, colleagues who I pass a few cheerful words with before driving the same route back home.

Some days, mostly at weekends, I go shopping. That can be quite interesting, and can really help to pass the time. I’ve even been to pubs, meeting friends and colleagues from work, smiling and laughing and joining in the fun. It’s important to join in, I’ve found. Oh, and i visit the gym, twice a week, every week. Got to keep toned, keep the musculature solid and the core tight, the legs and arse perfect. And I do this for you, because you love me for my mind but adore my body. 

I ache to see you again. My days are incomplete and meaningless until you are in them. My words are hollow unless they are directed to you. Even Luna notices that I am preoccupied, and tries, in her wonderful doggy way, to distract me with her antics. Her version of chase the ball would go on all week, if I let it. God, I love my dog!

It’s been three weeks and five days since I last saw you. Three weeks and five days since I was last with you, breathing in the fragrance of your wonderful honeysuckle plants, always your favourites. 

We talk every day, but I miss seeing you, watching how you move, watching you doze. Oh God, watching you flex and groan in passion, watching you cum as you lean over me, thrusting furiously and filling me, always staring straight into my eyes to watch my every reaction and share the experience. How you vibrate with lust, your cock massive and solid, safe inside me...

Even thinking about you, I’m rock hard, anxious to feel your hands on me, stroking my body as you fuck me, tweaking my nipples as you suck me dry, your wonderful big hands running over my shoulders and down my arms as you kiss me in your typically dominant, passionate fashion. Making me want you. Making me hot and desperate to feel you opening me up to your rigid, fat and long cock. To feel your low slung, heavy balls beating a rhythm against my widely spread arse cheeks as you fuck me with lustful abandon.

Even the insignificant blemishes of your face, the tiny acne scar and small mole on your left cheek, your long eyelashes that you think make you look too feminine, they are etched in my mind’s eye and makes me hotter for you. Your amazing light blue eyes that you say are like ice but to me seem as deep, deep pools that I want to drown in forever, are central to my masturbatory fantasies.

And your fantastic body! So tall, over six feet of tanned, radiant beauty, lightly haired in all the right places, perfect brown nipples on solid plates of muscle and a gorgeous flat stomach that I want to lick your sweat from. Even at forty, ten years older than me, your wonderful, dark and wavy hair only showed a hint of grey. Five years later, with hair slightly greyer and a tiny bit thinner, but still dark and wavy and your crowning glory. And that arse! Magnificent, muscular and lightly fuzzy, I could eat that arse for hours. But not fuck. No, not ever. You established that right at the start. You fuck, you don't get fucked. It didn't matter then, it doesn't matter now.

You humble me, being so perfect in your muscular masculinity, but calling me your ideal. I never understand why, I’m so much shorter, stocky and blond, practically hairless really, but you drool over my tight runners ass and call my thick six inch cock and high but full balls “cute". 

Oh yeah, you love my cock, love to suck me, love to watch me shoot my load in gasping, agonized spurts as you stroke my spasming prostate with your dominant nine inch dick. As soon as you found that you could make me cum just by fucking me, you never let me touch myself, never jerked my cock yourself. No, giving me a hands-free orgasm was the goal and prize, your blue eyes blazing with lust and love as I helplessly surrender my cum, my gift to you. And you breeding me, inseminating me so deeply as your gift to me. 

I met you on your first day at the factory as my new manager. My boss. What was it you said as you smiled at me? Oh yes. “I'm Sam, but you can call me Sir".  

I’d always considered myself to be mostly a top, but with you I just wanted to be taken, fucked into a mindless state of bliss. You seemed unattainable, but from the moment I first saw you I lost interest in casual encounters, clubbing and scoring the next brief fling. I couldn't get you out of my mind. I lusted for you.

You were married, your wife unknowing of your secret desires. Oh, you'd had the occasional furtive fumble, of course, but nothing that really rocked your world. Until you met me. 

It was an instant attraction between us, wasn’t it? That indefinable spark of sexual chemistry that we fought for weeks, until one day we touched hands accidentally and pow! I couldn't wait to get naked with you. As soon as our shift finished we met up in that shitty motel room and we were all over each other, tentative groping that quickly turned to inflamed kissing, caressing and petting that lead to full on, mind blowing sex. I don’t think we ever noticed the drab decor or the musty bed linen. And the overwhelming smell of sex, cum and lubricant just added to the general sordid atmosphere of the place after we had finished draining each other dry.

Oh baby, the times you made excuses to your family and met me at that motel, or later came to my house, just so we could wildly screw like a couple of love sick teenagers! Poor Sue, I’m sure she must have thought that you were up for promotion with all the “overtime” that you were doing. 

And every time you have a single blood red rose for me. Romantic and a beautiful hunk, how could I not love you?

It was inevitable that she would suspect something of course, but it was all part of the excitement at first, wasn't it? It was also inevitable that you had to get another job in a different factory too, as the rumour mill started churning out the whispers. Whispers that can hurt. Whispers that can harm. Whispers that would eventually lead back to your wife, confirming her suspicion of another woman...but little suspecting that the woman was a man. But you were honest. You loved your wife. You wanted to remain married. I understood then, just as I understand now. It's just so hard, loving you as I do, knowing that you are not mine.

So now, I only get to see you every month. My choice really, I don’t think I could stand it, if it was any more frequent. And I’ve just two days to go.

***

So here I am, two mind numbing days later, when I get my reward for being a good boy. It's not a long drive, just over an hour, but my impatience grows as I get nearer to you.

I’ve fed and walked Luna. She was your present to me as a consolation for when you couldn’t get away. The memory of you walking in to my place with that shaggy little bundle of joy in your arms always brings a smile to my face. Then every time you see me, you bring her something too – a toy, a bone, a biscuit. She is such a good dog, so sweet and playful. I love her to bits. She's such company when I’m not with you and waits patiently until I return. I’m sure she understands that she can't come with me, but knows that I have to see you. And so she waits for me. She's just like me really, waiting patiently to see me as I wait patiently to see you. Oh God, does that make me your dog? Your faithful, endlessly patient companion, just waiting for my monthly fix of my master? 

Yes Sam, you are my master, Sir. There was never any doubt in my mind about that. You control me as much as you love me. And I love you.

Parking my old VW in the car park, I stand at the entrance, letting my anticipation build, mentally checking that I look good, and smell nice for you. I know how you like me to make an effort! Am I clean? Check. Does my hair look ok? Check. Have I brought everything with me? Check.

The scent of the honeysuckle at the gate greets me. Your favourite, naturally. I draw in several deep lungfulls of the heady perfume to steady my nerves, and enter this most sacred of places.

You are waiting, of course. You always are. And finally, my endlessly long month is over as I stand here, before you. And the tears fall unnoticed, as they do every time I am with you.

I place the flowers without a card by the headstone, then a dog biscuit and one single, blood red rose on the top. And stand, silent and respectful in my grief.

Why, oh why, couldn’t we have been together? Why did you have to have that fucking crash, driving back to Sue after finally telling me, after so many months and years of loving you, and you loving me, that you were going to ask her for a divorce? Why couldn’t we have finally been together after all the secret meetings and stolen hours?

Why couldn’t you have waited until the rain stopped? Why did the other guy come away from the crash with barely a scratch, and you died at the scene from catastrophic injuries?

I remember your final words to me as if they were yesterday.

“I need to tell Sue, but I owe it to her to tell her face to face. I want a divorce. She can have everything, but I want a divorce. I want to spend the rest of my life with you before we’re too old to enjoy it.

I love you, Michael. I’ll be back soon, I promise, and we can finally spend our first night together. Just wait for me".

Sue never knew, of course. She didn’t know that I waited all night. She didn’t know that I heard about the accident in the morning and recognised the mangled wreckage of your car on the local TV news, sitting in uncomprehending horror through the thirty seconds news item. She didn’t know that I howled like a child later the next day, fat tears of shock and bitterness pouring down my cheeks when your name was read out as the deceased.

Sue never knew that I was at the back of the church for your funeral service, loosely seated with several colleagues and business associates that you knew, but alone in my anguish. She never knew that I was standing slightly apart from your grieving family members who were trying to give comfort to her as the bereft widow. I stood alone, eyes red rimmed and shoulders shaking in my sorrow, clutching a hidden red rose that I later left at the grave side.

Sue still doesn’t know who brings the single, blood red rose every month. I can only guess what she thinks about the mysterious dog biscuit that appears, regular as clockwork. And she never will know. 

I owe her that. I am her husband’s secret, and I don’t want to intrude. She mourns for you, as do I. Separately and alone.

One day Sam, I know I will think of you in the past tense, and will talk of you without sounding as if you have just stepped out of the room. But even after a year my own grief is still too raw to let me accept that you are gone. 

I still talk to you every day Sam. And every day I hear your last words to me.

I don't remember driving home, but Luna is waiting at the door for me. She is all I have of you now, Sam. She misses you, too. For the time being, she’s my life and I love her dearly.

One day, Luna wont be with me any more but until then, until she has had her last walk and chased her last ball, I will wait.

Until I am with you again, for the rest of my life, I'll play the waiting game.