It was sexual right from the start. It almost finished before I realised.
Lawrence had left me after a final fight. A screaming match that woke the neighbours, scared the local cats, and strained both of our throats. I threw him out really. I still wanted him; still needed him, but I couldn't cope with his behaviour any longer.
This, you understand, was sexual. The almost public fornication, and random household impalings. His habit of leaving notes in my underwear drawer, obscene messages on my phone. His large rough hands lifting me carelessly by the hips, skirt around my waist, knickers around my knees. His equally large cock, shoving me against the wall with a lovely solidity. Toe-tingling, muscle-cramping, scream-inducing multiple orgasms. Displays of arousal, his and mine, tents and damp knickers just with the thought of it all. A world reduced somehow to simplistic values. His cock. My cunt. Heat, movement, muscle spasms. Sexual, right?
But his morals were nowhere near as tight as his briefs, and eventually he strayed outside our simple world. By the time he told me, I already knew it was over. I think the screaming was a kind of grief process, because afterwards I felt that I had some closure, and managed to move on, after a fashion.
I closed down, too. After six months of the most energetic, frequent, stunning sex in my life, I just stopped. Cold turkey. I remember a while later, lying quietly in bed, reading something, and realising that I hadn't had an orgasm for two weeks. I wasn't really interested in doing anything about it either, and turned back to the book, contented somehow.
I started spending a few more hours at the office, realising with some guilt that I had been slacking off fairly seriously for a while. I started to talk with my colleagues more, and my world began to expand again.
At home one night, I thought about what I was doing, and decided that I should take up walking again. I used to walk on a regular basis BL (Before Lawrence), but I never had the energy for it once we started having sex. Realising that there was no time like the present, I hunted up my walking shoes, put on some old shorts and a tee-shirt, and headed out into the warm summer evening.
That was how I met Danny.
My little house was down the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a largish dormitory suburb. The houses were fifteen or twenty years old, and small, but nice. In order to get anywhere from home, I needed to walk up to the top of the street, and then turn left or right. Fate, luck, and an aversion to walking uphill led me to the left, and I followed this street around until I reached a significantly older group of houses. Large, airy, tall houses, with big rooms, and narrow sash windows. I've always liked the look of these wooden structures, though I've never lived in one, and I strolled along slowly, peering over fences and hedges, admiring the colours and condition of some of the houses that had been done up, frowning at the almost derelict condition of some of them. When I had bought my house a few years ago, the neighbourhood was going through something of a renewal, but there were a few of these old places that had been handed down through families, and not much had been done.
My eye was caught then by two things.
I was just passing a large grey house, blistered and bedraggled, clearly in need of some attention, but somehow the way the house stood, the angle and proportion of it, the colours and even the lack of attention made it attractive, and I stood for a while, and stared, trying to work out exactly what drew me to it.
The second thing was on the front lawn of that same house. Most of these places had some kind of garden, or a bird bath, or trees on the front lawn. All of the sections were fairly flat and square, so they formed areas where anything could happen really. A frame, if you like, waiting for some art. But this one didn't really fit with the rest. I don't think you could see this very well if you drove past, but in the middle of the lawn there was a large, elaborate pile of rocks. I'm talking three or four trailer-loads of them, various sizes, shapes, types, and presumably weights. But all these rocks had something in common. They had been painted. Rather carefully painted, by the look of them, and all in soft, delicate, pastel colours. You can imagine how they stood out, in this rather staid, old-fashioned street. I couldn't take my eyes off the pile of rocks, even though I couldn't decide if they were beautiful or ridiculously ugly. I just stared.
Some time later, as I was standing, holding the top of the hedge down, and peering at the pile, a man with overalls appeared from the side of the house. His blue clothing was splattered with fairly random sprays of colour. Pastel colour. And he was carrying a largish boulder in both hands. A fairly flat river stone, incongruously painted a pale green, which he carefully placed on top of the pile, moved slightly, after looking at it, then stood back, stared again, and walked back around the side of the house.
I wasn't sure if he had seen me or not, but I'd had a chance to look at him. He was a big man, not fat, but tall, and broad shouldered, his ragged red hair splaying untidily from his clean-shaven freckled face. His hands looked suitably large as well, carrying the stone carefully, and his booted feet gave the impression of considerable size too, though boots are often deceiving that way.
I waited for a while, watching the pile of rocks some more, but he didn't reappear, and eventually I moved on, as yet unaware of the magnetism the house, the rocks, and the man possessed. I decided I should walk as far as the Italian café further down the road, did so, stopped there for a quiet coffee, and headed back home, pausing briefly to check out the rocks again the near-dark. Nothing seemed to have changed, and I continued home.
I slept peacefully that night, and woke feeling refreshed and restored. It was Saturday, and I had no need to head to work, so I stayed in bed for a while, hopping out briefly to heat the jug, crawling back into bed with a hot drink, and then reading a few magazines I'd not had time for when I was still fucking Lawrence.
As I reached the end of the last magazine, I thought about him, wondering where he was, and what he was up to. I guessed he was at that tart's place, fucking up a storm, much as he would have been doing here. I sure as hell wouldn't have had a quiet sunny morning to myself if he'd been here.
Maybe it was one of the articles in the magazine, or the thought of Lawrence's impressive endowment, or the sun, or being naked in bed in the daytime, but for the first time in ages, I felt horny. As I lay there, eyes closed, I imagined that Lawrence had wriggled down the bed, and woken me, as he often did, with his head between my legs.
Silently, and with infinite patience, he would stroke my legs with his fingers, and his tongue, dampening my skin with his lips, his hot breath upon me, his hands gently spreading my knees to give him access to me. In reality, as I thought this, my fingers found their way down between my damp thighs, and began stroking in his place.
As I imagined his tongue carefully licking my labia, his slipperiness matching mine, I tried to replicate that action with my fingers, scooping some moisture so I could slide them effortlessly. As my fingers stroked upwards, I accidentally scuffed my fingertip across the top of my erect clitoris, sending a shivering shockwave of pleasure through me. It had been too long, after all.
Thinking of his lips again, and his tongue, scraping across me just like my careful fingers, I scooped some more moisture from deep inside, and applied it carefully to my clit, moving my fingertip gently around and around, pushing or pulling it directly of the top again every now and then, faster and faster, as I felt my body tense.
Imagining his head bobbing quickly between my thighs now, it was as though I could feel him exploring inside me with his fingers, scraping my butt with his fingernails, teasing my ass with a gentle fingertip, pressing without intruding, all the time gyrating madly on my clit with his tongue. I got closer and closer, my fingers swirling quickly but gently, and I could feel my orgasm closing in on me.
Just as I crossed the point of no return, and my body started to shudder, his imagined head lifted from between my legs, and it wasn't the dark haired sexy unreliable Lawrence. It was the redhead from the rock house, his dishevelled hair surrounding green eyes and a mischievous grin. I came then, hard, panting loudly with the release, my fingers chasing wildly over my clit as my thighs pounded on the bed. And I didn't stop. I kept caressing myself, hot and wet now, and persevered, stroking around when I had to, over the top when I could, my other hand pinching my hard nipples, as I writhed on the bed, and came again, harder, longer, and then collapsed, soaked and exhausted for a few minutes, on the bed, thinking only of one thing. What, I wondered, between shudders, was that redheaded man doing there? He's not remotely sexy, and I don't even know him.
A few minutes later, I was feeling invigorated, rather than tired, and I got out of bed, had a quick shower, and thought about some breakfast. I decided in the end that I would walk back down to the café I had been at the night before, and see if I could get something decent to eat there. I realised deep down that I wanted to see the rocks again, and work out what the attraction was, but I wasn't ready to admit that to myself, so the self-deceit of the café worked well.
.... There is more of this story ...