PBax's Prompt Work - 3. The Window

He is late. He has always showed up and he’s always been on time. I’m worrying for no reason. As I bring my iced vodka from the coaster to my mouth, a few drops of condensation fall on my thigh. The concentrated chill startles my bare skin. I move the cold, wet glass, slowly and deliberately, around my nipple and let the sensation flow as my nipple hardens and begs for more. I set the glass down, close my eyes and imagine him standing there.

I run my hands down my chest and stomach and find myself. I stroke and tease as slowly as I can. I love the sensation of nerves firing beneath my fingertips, begging for a touch with more pressure. But I don’t want to give in. Not yet. I’m still hopeful he’ll show up. He’s not that late. I have to stop myself from wondering where he is or if he’s coming. Thoughts like that make me anxious and unfocused – the exact opposite of what we both want.

I splash what’s left of the vodka into my mouth and wonder if I have time to refill. If I get up and walk to the freezer and he shows up and doesn’t see me, will he bolt, how long will he wait? Will he wonder if I gave up on him? No, we’ve done this enough. He’ll know to wait. I also know, without wondering why, that him leaving without seeing me is not an option. Even so, I move quickly to the freezer and grab the bottle to pour a few shots more. Before I do, I slide the frozen bottle across my left nipple – some extra tease for good measure. I take a swig from the bottle and put more in the glass.

If he’s there, I don’t want to be seen rushing into the room. I need to walk so I look relaxed, lost in myself with no anticipation. I’m not supposed to know he’s there after all. And it’s not supposed to be about rushing. I lean against the counter and carefully edge myself back to full attention before I return to the living room. If he’s there, I know he’ll like that. I walk to the couch and sit down slowly, spreading my legs wide as I ease my hips toward the edge of the cushion and lean back. I check the window with my peripheral vision and it’s empty.

I hear a slight rustle through the open window. It’s not the sound of him walking across the landscaping gravel to press himself against the window, sided by two large bushes. I know that much for certain. What I don’t know is how he gets here, if he walks or drives, if he’s a neighbor or lives across town. I’ll never know, but I often wonder about his identity. Since it all started, I haven’t been able to leave the house without getting a rush of curiosity about every glance my way. It’s both exhilarating and exhausting. Every interaction feels intimate yet alien.

I light a cigarette, grab my vodka, and fantasize about what he might want to do to me. I’m fully revitalized again without a touch. I down some vodka and place my glass on the table. I take a long, slow draw on my cigarette and exhale as I run my fingers through the hair around the base of my shaft. A selfish ache starts to crave my attention, but before I give in I hear him. The sound of gravel grinding together under his feet as he approaches is clear. All my senses heighten with expectancy, but I take a last calm drag on my cigarette and slowly reach to the ashtray and dinch it carefully and methodically. As I finish, everything goes silent and I know his ski mask is perfectly adjusted and he’s ready. I wonder if he’s feeling rushed and anxious because he’s late.

I let myself relax back across the length of the couch keeping one leg extended, the other bent with my foot resting on the floor. I raise the arm closest to him up and behind my head, push with my hips and legs, and purposefully coax muscles and tendons into defined lines. Relaxing again, I turn my head and lick the inside of my bicep. I can taste and smell my sweat. I linger there, breathing deeply. Sometimes I think I can hear him inhaling with me, smelling me vicariously. Maybe I just like to think it’s something he wants. I move and stretch, twist and turn, running my hands and fingertips slowly across anything that wants touched and I give myself shivers. I enjoy the feel of my tight skin and allow myself to delight in the ridges and valleys of my toned body. I want him to be able to imagine it’s his hands touching me and his hands generating my desire.

I can’t help but run my eyes across the window, looking through him, past him, never stopping to make contact, knowing all I need to know – that he is standing there transfixed. I begin to stroke myself purposefully with one hand while I continue exploring with the other. A flick and a pinch on the nipple, a gentle twist and pull of the hair just below my navel. I turn my head to my bicep again, lick, then bite till I make myself whimper. Tugs and pressures getting stronger and deeper, focusing all my unresolved sensations on a single demand. I stop my stroking and squeeze my erection and let my free palm spread need around the head. I bite my lip and moan. My body begins to stretch and contract all at once, and I push rolling spasms to a nearly painful end before bringing them to life again. I can hear his breathing increase. I know he can hear and see me gradually quickening the pace of my strokes. Finally, I have to give in and my whole body shares in every contraction as I unload across my torso. Totally spent and covered in sweat and cum, I let my body sigh.

I run my index finger in looping, wandering trails from my navel to the center of my chest. I know what happens next, but I pause a little longer than usual. He made me wait tonight, after all. I wonder if he has a momentary doubt about whether I’ll make it happen. Of course, I will. I lift my coated index finger to my closed lips and run it side to side and then lick them clean. With that, I hear his telltale plaintive moan and know he is finishing.

I stay still. Eyes closed. Breathing quietly. It’s not just for his benefit. I am drained. After a few moments, I hear the crunch of gravel as he leaves. I reach down and grab the towel from under the couch and clean myself. I light a cigarette and head toward the kitchen to refill my vodka and put on the gym shorts I’d thrown on the table. As I head toward the door I wonder how and why I started this, will he return, is he still nearby and still watching? Mostly I want to know if he’ll return.

I walk outside and around to the window. There, weighted with a rock, is the $50 bill folded in half. I pick it up and unfold my reward. There is my answer. The piece of paper inside simply reads 071613130A. He’ll be back next Tuesday. It is always on a Tuesday at 1:30 a.m.