Towel number one was employed for my pre-date shower.  A little later, my partner shivered in towel number two while I rubbed warmth back into his skin with towel number three.  As you can possibly imagine, some parts of his skin ended up toastier than others.  My mouth dried what the towel wouldn’t reach.

And then we were together, a vibe on my clit while he fucked me deeply in the middle of the bed.  One thrust coaxed from me an enormous burning gush.  “It’s a butterfly,” I said later, leaning in to examine the blot.  “No, a bunny rabbit,” he coolly countered, and then we threw down towel number four and continued apace.

A break later sent us downstairs for refreshments; I snagged towel number five so that my naked lubed-up bits would not besmirch the sofa.  And lucky thing, because after a fifteen minute pause he jammed his cock down my throat and reached between my legs.  This set off a round of couch-based fuckery that far surpassed the gushing-producing intensity of our upstairs encounter, so much that the towel squelched wetly beneath me as rivers leaked down my legs.

Interspersed amongst the towels were several quick clean ups with wash cloths cooked in the crock pot.  This produced a surfeit of steamy hot comfort which we enjoyed most extravagantly, leaving a pile of a half-dozen clammy rags for later laundering.

Post-date clean up took the lives of the last two towels.  Number six rubbed over him while I lounged in bed; number seven dried me several hours later, alone and patting very gently so as not to make tender, pinked-up parts even more annoyed.

This provides some explanation of why the pile of laundry stretched far above the basket’s rim and required more work to complete than I’d planned to devote to it on a Sunday night.

But despite my usual hatred for laundry folding, this time I didn’t mind.  Not one bit.

Invariably he gives me a show.  Naked and still half-hard despite multiple orgasms, he frames himself before the lighted bathroom door and washes up.  Because he knows how much I enjoy the view, he turns to and fro so that I can watch the washcloth and his hands move.  I am transfixed by how firmly he pulls at his cock, how assuredly he moves aside his balls, how comfortably he leans forward to give me a glimpse between his legs.

The moment’s pleasure is somewhat diminished by the fact that my bedroom is so far away from the water heater that it takes an eternity for hot water to come up.  He chooses between waiting in cold air or washing with cold water; either is accompanied by bellyaching on his part and teasing on mine.

Although this has been going on for months and various potential solutions have been bandied about, it was only a few days ago that I came up with the best possible way to alleviate the cold water situation.  Of course the idea popped into my head immediately after he left, but early the next morning I sent him an IM.  “I’ve got a hot new sexual technique to show you next time we get together,” I wrote, hoping to entice him with thoughts of a new position or perhaps a different swirly way of moving my tongue.  “I can’t wait to show it to you.”

Unfortunately, I succeeded in piquing not his interest but his worry.  He stewed over it for a few hours while I was away from all communication devices, then continued to stew when I teasingly refused to tell him any more of the surprise.  “Don’t you want to wait ’til I can show you?” finally I asked.

“No,” I was firmly told.  “I hate surprises.”

I told him, though it sounded disproportionately lame.  “Oh,” he said, mollified.  “That’s it?  I thought it was something you’d gotten from another man.”

I assured him it was not.  “When would I have had time to see someone else between when you left last night and now?  And why would I have done that, considering the state you left me in?  Why would you worry about this?”  I shouldn’t have bothered to ask.  These are questions that merit no good answers, only the same answers I often give when the roles are reversed:  It felt bad.  I was nervous.  I doubted your love and worried that you loved someone else more, if that’s possible.

I’m relieved not to be the only be one in this relationship who occasionally goes all wibbley.

Next time he’s here, he’ll find in my bathroom an old crock pot which has languished in the back of my cupboard for years.  If he peeks in he’ll see it filled with hot damp towels and a trace of water, steaming away so that he can wash up in exquisite comfort afterward.  An old crock pot will be the most recent in a series of nearly invisible threads we’ve thrown to each other, which when wound together and loosely draped function to bind us more securely than do some rings made from gold.

He could not have been in me more deeply.

We started in the traditional doggy position:  me kneeling on the bed, him standing behind me.  This time I pressed my legs tightly together, but this didn’t meet with his approval.  Immediately he began nudging them apart, steadily fucking me all the while.

“Did you want me to spread my legs more, Daddy?”  I asked, enjoying the violent thrill that passed through me when he said yes, yes he did want my legs spread open more.  Why, when we were already naked, already fucking, already almost as deeply joined as possible would a few nearly meaningless words serve to push me even harder up against the edge?

Then somehow he rotated behind me.  His right leg went up on the bed as he leaned his body diagonally across mine.  At the same time he circled his finger on my clit until I screamed into the mattress.  I don’t know if this position has a name.  I cannot even fully picture how it looks, as I’m usually face-down and out of my mind.

Do I care?  No, not really, because when he was close to coming and buried in me so deeply that an atom wouldn’t fit between our bodies he held absolutely still and let me rock on him.  If you watched you’d probably see no movement at all, but it’s there.  I tilted my hips very gently so that his head rubbed against something that threatened to make me either come or pee all over the place.  Not that the latter has happened.  Yet.

We can’t last long like this.  It’s just too intense.  And when it was done I slid to the floor in front of him.  None of his hardness had faded, so I took as much of him as I could into my mouth.  “I think my vagina’s all better now, don’t you?”

He smiled down at me.  “It’s perfect.”