Osmosis

Osmosis

An Erotic story by James

He hasn’t touched me in weeks.
I hadn’t wanted to be touched in weeks.
The sensation of desire—that I am a match that wants desperately to be ignited—is gone.
Poof.
I could tell you how much I love him, that I find him irresistible and such, but after twenty-five years, would you believe me or even want to hear it?
There is no one else. Never has been. Right now, there’s just no one. He’s a roommate, a forgotten yet beloved dildo, a nice guy, someone I enjoy.
It’s late evening—around nine—my thoughts of him ruminate in my mind. My body is relaxed into the corner of our couch. My legs are curled beneath me. We’ve turned the heat down, the house is cool, and I am wine-tired.
Like a switch going off in his head, my husband says goodnight, kisses my forehead, and his steps trail up the stairs. The toilet flushes, water runs, and then the bed groans beneath his weight. I half hope he is about to masturbate.
But then, the image of it kills me. My lonely husband, his hand working his shaft, listening for my footsteps, hoping to get off, to ease his tension before I disturb him.
Here I sit. My pussy indifferent to his plight… our plight.
Pathetic.
I give him a few minutes but the call of my book and bed lures me from the couch. I walk into the kitchen, leave my wine glass on the counter, turn the lights off as I pass through to the stairs, then into the bathroom for a pee and brush my teeth.
When I nudge the bedroom door open, he is lying in bed, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes looking at me.
What does he look like, you ask? Well, he looks sort of like your husband.
And what do I look like? Like you, of course.
He’s wearing boxers and a gray t-shirt. I wiggle out of my pants and drop them in the hamper. His eyes watch as I take my blouse and bra off and cover myself with a t-shirt.
“What?” I ask.
His eyes and lips and face are flat, sad.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
My neck and cheeks warm. We tend to make big announcements at night, when the house is quiet. A remnant from when the kids were small and a wall away rather than college. It’s when we talk of things with weight such as the possibility of cancer followed by the probability, and then its treatment.
But tonight’s not that. Something else.
“Sorry for what?” I sit on the bed and pat his thigh then pull my hand back. An awkward buddy-wife maneuver.
“That it’s been a while.”
I nod.
“I don’t really know how to describe it,” he says.
“Describe what?”
“It.”
“Your penis?” I tease. We long ago agreed that Penis is such a flaccid, boyish word.
Tears well in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I feel you pulling away.”
“No. I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way.”
A few weeks ago, we tried to make love, but his cock was unresponsive to my touch, to my lips. My pussy was uninterested in his touch, to his tongue. I asked him to stop. “Enough,” I’d said embarrassed with a trace of annoyance in the color of my voice.
“I want you.”
“I want you too,” I lie.
“I feel an electric pulse in my body of wanting to be inside of you. My skin, muscles, brain feel like my cock should be so hard that it will burst out of my body—”
“It’s okay.”
He sits up and lays his hands in his lap. “It doesn’t feel like it is.”
More tears well in the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away with the back of one hand then places it back in his lap. “I don’t want it to be okay.”
My eyes wander down his body to his hands. They are strong—one of his strongest features—and lined by age. His wedding ring, a simple gold band, rests loosely on his finger. It never fit and when the woman at the jewelry shop warned it might fall off, he looked at her, “I don’t want it to feel constricting.” In our twenty-five years of marriage, I don’t imagine it’s felt more constricting than it does now.
“It’s not just you,” I say.
He leans back against the headboard.
“I don’t have even that electric pulse in my skin. I don’t even think of sex, and if I do, I miss the sensation of wanting to be touched. Not so much the touching.”
He sits with this for a moment. That is his way. To reflect on new information. To reframe his theory of my mind, of his own.
“Come into the bed with me and make love.”
My lips press together.
“Just love on each other. I don’t have to penetrate you. You don’t have to get me hard or, you know, anything else. Just hold each other, slow kisses, tenderness. I think that’s most of what I need.”
I married a cuddler. Unlike other lovers, after I came and he finished, he’d gently thrust his semi-hard cock deep inside of me, his body pressing against me, rocking against my clit, the warmth of his semen sliding within me. With his arms wrapped around me, he’d tease out the last, dying sensations of pleasure and held the moment in silence.
My lips ease and furl into a semi-smile. “Okay, but you get up and make the coffee in the morning.”
“Of course,” he says pulling the covers open to let me in.
He pulls his t-shirt off and I do the same. I climb into his arms and like how the warmth of his body feels against mine and that my breasts are pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around me and I’m curled within him, our foreheads, noses, and lips touching. He kisses my upper lip and the softness of it eases some of the tension in my body.
I kiss him back, then we pause in the moment. My mind drifts with the sound of his breathing and a memory of him an hour or two after his cancer surgery to remove a small early stage tumor from his colon passes through my mind’s eye. It’s one of those memories that’s static, persistent. There is no movement or sound, just that image of him weak, vulnerable, helpless. I was so scared to lose him, to be on my own with our teen son and daughter.
I’m not the dependent housewife my mother was—I do well enough in my own career—so it wasn’t a fear of money. It was just that thought that there are so many tender complexities and textures to our life together, to see and feel them unweave and fade to nothing…
His fingers tickle the back of my neck and I realize I’d let my arms hang stiff by my sides. I creep one hand up between us, the palm of it open against his body. The other, I run my nails along his spine and then back down to the side of his buttocks. Softer than years ago, but warm and comfortable beneath the fabric of his boxers.
His hips rock against me in a small, subtle motion so that his cock—swollen but at all not hard—presses against my pelvis.
I remember the night we conceived our eldest. There was no plan, some conversations, but not an active attempt for a child. We’d woken in the night in a heat, wordlessly strumming the other’s body into thoughtlessness. My legs—bent at the knees, pulled back at my hips—were opened wide and I felt the head of his hard insistent cock push past the slight, constraining entrance to my pussy, then deeper and deeper until I was filled and stretched by him in the most delicious way. I felt that I could not spread myself wide enough to make my pussy and body available to him. We ground into each other—like through some transcendent osmosis our bodies could merge—until I came with a rare intensity. I looked up at him, his eyes worried, “I want to come inside of you,” he whispered. “It’s okay, that’s what I want, too,” and I felt his cock spasm inside me and then the warmth of the first burst of semen, and then the next and another, and another until little convulsions drained his last into me. We lay in silence, and as I fell back into sleep, I knew that my body had never been so open to him, to receiving of his warmth, that our lives had, in a moment, changed.
***
A contented hum escapes me as he kisses my lips again and my hand presses a little harder into the flesh of his buttocks. My other hand wanders down to his soft belly and with my finger tips I outline his cancer scar, the only remnant of that time where fear mixed with a fantasy of what life would be like alone. In it, I am okay, living a life that I am the sole owner of in this house we’d turned into a home, satiated with love from our children and friends. A lover or two or three—none of whom I’d allow into my life—satisfy a certain physical itch. The hole that my husband would leave, could not be filled.
It was more coping—erotic reverie as distraction—than any true want. Lying with him now, secure and warm, I realize how important this is. From the scar, I let my fingernails drift lightly, raising goosebumps as they travel, to the waistband of his boxers then beneath it and across his cock. It wiggles at my touch but is not insistently hard as it would’ve been a few years ago. There is life in it, but it is a different thing. Less predictable in its nature.
He pulls his hips away.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Soft or hard, I like touching it.”
His hips relax and my fingertips outline the head of his cock and then the short, fleshy shaft. My middle finger reaches out and gently traces around one testicle, then the second as my other fingers tenderly knead the head. He flexes muscles deep in his groin that make his cock pulse to my touch—like male Kegels—and I smile at how wonderfully animated penises can be.
“There’s a little somethin’ going on down here,” I say to him.
“A little…”
His face is less than an inch from mine. His eyes are closed. His fingers tease the soft hairs on the back of my neck but then meander down my spine. A tickle shivers along the surface of my skin causing a slight wiggle in my body.
“You still respond to my touch,” he says.
I suppose I do.
At the small of my back he presses the palm of his hand into it and holds it for a beat or three, then slides it down so that the tips of his fingers trace the cleft of my bottom and his palm presses into the flesh of my buttock. His muscles tense against my skin and I feel him pull my hips to his. My hand roams up the small of his back and I pull him tight against me. Pressed together, warm skin against warm skin, we hold onto each other.
His lips brush against mine and I responded by lifting my mouth toward his and we share such a wonderfully moist and tender kiss. The world no longer spins. There is only this moment with his body fully embraced by mine and mine by his. Through transcendent osmosis, we are merged together.
My hand slides along his spine to the waistband of his boxers and begins to push them down over his bottom, but we are too entwined to make much headway. He pulls his hips back and with his own hand slides the boxers off his body. I reach down to the band of my panties and strip them down and off my legs.
Our hands and legs and torsos realign. He places an arm beneath my neck and with the other hand he massages my breast, teasing the nipple with his fingertips. They are the breasts that fed our two children and that I’ve always known he’s adored. With his hand, he scoops and lifts my breast so that the nipple extends out and leaning his head toward it he licks it like a kitten with warm milk. His teeth nibble and then he sucks it with his lips and tongue; an innate need to feel the comfort and security of nursing. I pull him into my bosom, wanting to give to him whatever he needs as I take pleasure in the heat of his mouth.
I arch my back in a way that presents my breasts to him, offers them to him, for only him, and move one hand down through the patch of pubic hair above his cock. The very tips of my fingers, inquisitive, wondering what state I will find him, press toward the base of his cock then run up along the shaft. It is neither soft nor hard, but awake, sensitive, involuntarily responding to this touch. He opens his legs to offer himself to me, to allow my fingers to explore.
He kisses up the top of my breast to the small of my neck and rather than tickle, the sensation of his lips and lapping tongue touches off a current that runs through to the center of my body. His hand roams along my abdomen and then belly, over the loose skin that marks the satchel within which our babies grew, to the top of my pubic bone. The heel of his hand presses into the crease just above my clit and massages in a circular motion. I part my legs to this caress and beneath his hand—in the roots of my clit, where its tendrils spread throughout my body making my nipples, nape of my neck, and so many other places extensions of sexual arousal—I am stirred.
I move my hand from his fleshy cock and push on his shoulder. My signal that he is to relax, make himself vulnerable and allow me to work on him, to kiss down past his belly and take him into my mouth.
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“Not yet?” Not yet is my way of saying I needed more playing, more teasing, more stirring.
His palm presses a little harder and my hips respond by grinding my clit up into the pommel of his hand. A little moan escapes my lips, but the sensation is different. There is an electric pulse beginning deep within the bud of my clit, but it is not the same sensation of my vagina softening, lubricating, wanting. And yet, the instinct to be ultimately vulnerable to him is no less insistent. With one of my hands holding the nape of his neck, I rotate my hips so that my legs spread wider. My breasts are more exposed to him as well and he lowers his lips to a nipple as the pommel of his hand presses a little harder into the base of my clit. The gyrating of my hips slides the hood of my clit along its bud-length so that more of my center is tended by him.
His body is still, stiff from holding his position, and his finger—the middle one?—just kisses the very edge of my labia while the pommel of his hand stirs me. I open my legs wider so that I can be completely exposed to him and with that signal his finger pushes past my labia to my vulva and works in little circles to expose the entrance to my pussy.
“Don’t put it inside me,” I whisper.
He responds by circling his finger around the opening. I feel the roughness of his finger, almost the contours of his fingerprints, but his touch is light, and the friction is enough to send little pulses up through my pussy into my body.
“Unnhh…” I moan as I feel my pussy contract with his touch. I spread my legs wider so that one of them lies languidly across his legs and I rock my pelvis into his finger and hand. My soft purrs and movements cue him that tension is building within my body. He curls his finger up inside of me, but as it passes through the tighter opening of my pussy up into the canal of my vagina, there is a twinge of pain.
“No, honey. Just right where you were,” I tell him.
His finger goes back to stirring the rim around my pussy and the tension within my body continues to build. His rhythm is steady but as my hand tightens its grip on his neck, my pussy contracts, and my body arches, the pommel of his hand orbits my clit with increasing insistence. His finger circles the entryway to my pussy in light, little touches that weave with the sensations in my clit to build greater tension.
“There, there, there…” I whisper and his body stiffens to my order.
My back arches and hips rotate down against his hand and fingers as every synapse, sense, and nerve condenses into a spherical critical mass at the base of my clit. And with one last imperative rocking of my hips to bear down into his movements and skin, the electric sphere bursts in a chain reaction of impulses coursing through my body. I shake in his arms and my pussy pulsates with the firing of each impulse.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” I whisper as the eruptions ease and then fade into an intense, tingling wiggliness.
I reach my hand down to his and in a gentle motion push it away. The tip of my middle finger pats the entrance to my pussy and then I dip into it, but there is only the slightest wetness.
My eyes do not wander up to his. “I guess that was a bit of a dry orgasm.”
“Whatever it was, it was beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I turn to face him, and my hand feels for his cock. I wouldn’t say it was hard, but I wouldn’t say it was soft either. Sort of a fleshy, soft erection. Enough to fondle with my fingers, but not enough to push inside of me.
“Roll onto your back,” I tell him.
“I don’t know.”
“Trust me.”
He turns onto his back and his half hard dick flops over to the left. I give a little, Mona Lisa smile because I know he uses his left hand to masturbate. Years of tugging himself off—I assume—have given his cock a left tilt.
I climb on top of him and rub against his cock with my pussy as I kiss him deeply. His hands massage my breasts and give little pinches to my nipples. He’s always loved my breasts, even though, or maybe because they’re now the breasts of a mature, confident woman. As I hover above him, they are soft with thin little stretch marks and I delight as my nipples brush against his bare chest.
With one last, deep kiss, I shift my body toward the head of the bed so that my nipples hover just above his mouth. He grabs my ass with one hand and presses me more firmly against his cock and rocks his hips. His other hand holds my breast to his mouth so that he can lick and suck my nipple. The sensation sends little prickly tingles into my body and I lift my head to arch my back to present my breasts fully to him. The sucking and grinding of his cock—a bit more erect, but still fleshy—against my pussy and clit maintain a subtle yet palpable sense of arousal within me. I am not wet, so to speak, but my mind and skin are in a state of wanting.
I grind a bit harder against his cock for a moment more, then disentangle my body from his grasp and slide down his chest, kissing his skin lightly, past the scar, to just above his cock. He has a beautiful cock. Not so long that it hits the back of my pussy, and thick with a wide, with a fat head.
My eyes wander up to his, but they are closed. His lips are loose, emotionless. His hand wends through my hair and brushes against the back of neck. It is not a command—Down on me now—just a gentle loving gesture in a moment of high anticipation.
I purse my lips and blow a little warm breath onto the head of his cock. A single involuntary spasm makes his cock quiver before my mouth. I blow again. And again, a single tingling of synapses makes his cock pulse just once. My tongue slides past my lips and ever so lightly tastes the edge of his cock just below the head. It pulses again and almost seems to want to follow my tongue back into my mouth. I look up at him and smile. His eyes are closed. He is lost and the world has stopped spinning for him.
I pucker my lips like I am going to kiss, and I press them against the tip of his cock, allowing it to penetrate my mouth ever so slightly, then slowly withdraw. I let the tip pass through my lips again and my tongue licks the underside of the head of his cock up to its little opening where I taste a bit of thick, salty precum. I pause and swirl the tip of my tongue around this most sensitive bit of skin on my man’s body. I imagine it’s a locus of nerve endings just like the nook beneath the tip of my clit and treat it as such with my tongue. Soft, slow, determined, letting the friction of the buds on my tongue stir his desire and physical tension.
The skin of his cock is fleshy, not taught like when he has a full erection, but beneath the shaft it is firm, like relaxed muscle, and I wrap my lips around it as I take him further into my mouth. I let the dimpled surface of my tongue run along the underside of the head and down the shaft along the vein that is his urethra.
His legs spread open and I am now between them in a position of supplication to his cock. The fingers of one of my hands fondles and teases the underside of his testicles and I dip my mouth down as far as I can fit him into me. I pause and bob ever so slightly to press and release on his cock before slowly raising my head and allowing my tongue to run along his urethra and the spot beneath the head that is so much like a clit. My tongue wiggles over it as my mouth and then lips rise above his cock and a long string of saliva keeps me connected to him.
The fingers teasing his testicles move the base of his cock and I wrap them around it. His hips—seemingly involuntarily—rise toward my mouth then lower and thrust again against the pressure of my fingers encircling the base of his cock. He is tense, longing for my lips and mouth to encircle him again.
And I oblige.
In a slow, single motion I take all of him into my mouth. I taste salty precum and feel the head of his cock wiggle against the back of my throat. I lift my mouth up and my fingers follow along the length of his cock. When his cock is revealed to me, I run my thumb firmly down and then up along his urethra squeezing it shut and do it again and then once more. My saliva mixed with his precum makes for a wonderful lubricant so that his semi-soft/semi-hard wet cock slides easily between my fingers.
“Ohhh…” he moans, and his hips thrust with my hand and touch just the edge of my lips. I feel deep at the base of his cock the muscles clenching and his testicles are a bit firmer. I lower my mouth onto his cock and with my fingers wrapped tightly around it I pump my head down and then up paying special attention to his clitoral-like profusion of nerve endings. His legs stiffen, his belly beneath his gut hardens, he rocks his hips and wraps his fingers into my hair as I work his cock a little faster and hard. Sucking and releasing, drawing my hand and mouth down and then up, mimicking the pulsing, tremulous wonder that is my pussy.
And then the first shot of warm cum bursts from the end of his cock followed by another and another. Rather than stop and let it fade in my mouth I lift my mouth off him and run my fingers around the head of his cock and lick at the wee opening as bits of semen spurt up against my lips and drip back down over my fingers.
Little shivers send little beads of cum up, but his body begins to ease, and his legs no longer clench around me. One last shudder, and it all dies away.
I wipe my mouth with the sheet then curl up into his arms and kiss him deeply. His tongue searches mine and I am sure that he enjoys the syrupy seawater taste of his cum inside my mouth. Then I lay gently against him.
“I guess I don’t have to be hard to cum.”
“No. I guess not.”
He smiles.
And our love is put back together for the night.

 

James is a fiftyish writer living in Exeter, New Hampshire. He attended Quaker schools and his first love has always been storytelling. In addition to his own writing, he works as a ghostwriter of memoir and creative nonfiction and reviews of his recent work suggest that he’s becoming a better writer. His website is www.orchardwriting.com.

 

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