Arthur Adler
He had been teasing her all day – for hours – leading her to the edge of climax.
And just as she’s about to explode, he stops.
Pulls back. A mischievous glint in his eyes.
She moans, cries, begs for him not to stop.
To enter her. To ravish her. Please. His light eyes, dimpled cheeks, and tanned chest drive her crazy.
He starts again: rubs his hands over her thighs, licks between her legs, circles her clit, inserts his fingers …
and then, just as her legs start shaking again, he stops.
She grabs the bedsheets with her hands, gasps for air, begs him to release her.
Then she feels a drip of sweat hit her chest. Belle opens her eyes as Arthur grunts. He’s atop of her, thrusting.
The fantasy has gone and instead is replaced with the familiar.
She stares into his eyes, dark brown, as he pumps.
She knows every inch of him. Can read his pale skin like a map, knows the constellation of his moles.
Could blindly trace the Pac-Man tattoo on his ankle.
Knows every vein of his cock. She arches her back up slightly and he furrows his brow.
She knows he likes that. She can tell he’s concentrating on not coming too soon.
Focused, he returns the favour, reaching down to squeeze her nipples. She tilts her head back, reaches her arms above her, and grabs on to the headboard for support as he pounds.
This dance they play is well rehearsed, follows the same act.
Initiate – usually an ‘early night?’ with a wink or just ‘bed?’ – then they strip their clothes, socks still on, and jump under the sheets, giggling.
They cuddle. They warm each other’s feet with their thighs, they kiss, they touch.
He climbs atop and enters. She relaxes into him, feels utterly safe.
He knows her just as well. He knows that if he leans on his elbows and kisses her neck, there’s a spot that gives her goosebumps, that makes her arch into him more.
He knows her favourite sex toy (the rose-shaped one with a sucker) and he knows that she loves sixty-nine but only on the three days of the month when she’s feeling her most confident and has had time to properly shave.
Belle grips the headboard harder, feels complete as he slides in and out, and she closes her eyes again.
Thinks of edging. Thinks of being taken from behind.
Thinks of sex in lavender fields. ‘I’m gonna come,’ she moans, fingertips white, head thrown back as her body shudders.
The orgasm ripples through her body, legs going weak.
She grins, looks up, locks eyes. His mouth falls open. He continues fucking her. ‘Oh fuck,’ he whispers.
‘Hmmmmm …’ she replies, a soft moan back.
He pulls out as she bites her lip, looks from his dick to his face, as he comes over her chest. Warm, sticky, and his.
He kisses her on the forehead. Climbs off, a grin on his face as he leaves the room.
Belle looks down at the mess on her chest as Arthur walks in with a tissue roll and cleans her up.
He throws the tissues into the bin and rolls over.
He’ll be asleep in four minutes. She doesn’t mind.