Like Michelangelo's david he is beautiful and this overworked house wife must have him David by Jean Savage copyright 1999 The thermostat has topped ninety when I finally decide to call for help. All day long alone in this house it’s easy to make do by merely shucking clothes, but this is too much. I know it will be a hassle, I’ll have to break my private routine to allow some stranger in, but so be it, I can’t keep sweating this way—might short out the keyboard or something. So, I prepare to quickly don the necessary pieces which modesty must demand of me, and continue to work in the nude while I wait. I can see the driveway through my office window, so when the white van with the writing on the side slows down at the end of the cul-de-sac, I throw on the shorts and t-shirt that lay heaped on the floor where they had dropped earlier. I pop my head into the bathroom on my way to the door to make sure I’m not too tousled, remove my glasses and leave them there on the counter. When the knock on the door comes my hand is already on the doorknob, so that when I fling the door open the man standing there has a startled look on his face. I have to grin, but can’t help blushing a little…this guy is cute, brings to mind the famous Michelangelo we’re digitizing. Um-hmm, I think, mentally posing this man, the sculpture this man could model… I realize my thoughts are perhaps too stimulating, the poor man is stammering as he takes in my welcoming beacons--pointedly stretching my shirt, my frayed shorts, and yes, he’s noticed the gold band on my finger. I think I’ve been working too much. “Good God!” I say in my best Southern manner, waving my hand by my face, “…certainly is a hot one, isn’t it? Some time for my air to break, don’t you think?” As I lead him around the house, I am very aware of the feeling of every step I take, the unmowed green grass under my naked toes, the warmth of the sun which has burnished my skin these last few weeks, the glorious feeling of having my movements traced visually. I’m positively basking and I know it, appreciating this attention I haven’t had for too long. As I approach the ladder in back, I think “…too late! If I’d only known, I’d have worn a skirt…”. So, I ascend slowly, careful to pause enough for good effect, as I chatter on about “…this unseasonal heat wave…” and, “…guess it’s got you working hard…” and I am choosing my words to match my sensual moves, stroking the rungs of the ladder as I climb. It’s hotter out here in the sun, the shade from the eaves too small to offer any respite, but the heat I can feel within me has nothing to do with the weather. I’m explaining what I think is wrong with the AC, all the time thinking how that chest must look under that work shirt, muscles chiseled by weights no doubt, as lovingly sculptured as my beloved “David,” caressed as he was by Michelangelo’s reverent touch. I can feel my body responding to the thoughts of such homage, the allurement that any fine work of art has for me. I think of touching this sculpture, running my fingers over the marble-hardness and I realize that I should not think any more as I can feel the crotch of my shorts becoming soaked. Descending the ladder our eyes meet, brown-to-green, lock for only a moment, long enough to start a flush rising from deep inside, quickly turning to a shiver where his skin has met mine. I wonder briefly if I’ve embarrassed myself, let some word of my thoughts escape in the inane babble spilling from my lips. As he turns to mount the rungs I’ve just relinquished I see from the bulge in his own shorts that his thoughts are aligned with my own, which makes me brave. “Don’t you ever feel like taking your shirt off, at least, when it’s this hot? “ I inquire, but without pausing for an answer, “I could never work sweating this way. I bet you’d make a lot of little old ladies nervous, though,” grinning up at him, I shade my eyes. He turns and smiles down the ladder at me, understanding perfectly. “It does get pretty hot sometimes, that’s for sure. Maybe, if you don’t mind, that is…” he says, unbuttoning his shirt. “Oh, no, not at all,” I reply, reaching for the shirt. “I’ll just put it inside. Would you like something to drink while I’m in there…water? …soda? “ “Some water would be great.” The excuse provides me with a welcome diversion, enough time to cool down a little, and I walk into the house mentally chastising myself. “This is crazy, what the hell do you think you’re doing? This guy could be the Jolly-AC-Axe-Murderer, that would be rich, Marshall coming home tomorrow to find me waiting in pieces…” From the kitchen window I can just see the ladder off to one side. I hang the shirt on the back of one chair and lean over the sink to get a better look. “My God he’s hung like…well, but just look at those thighs, what glutes he must have under those billowing shorts…” My hand has come unconsciously to brush one nipple, perky still through the soft cotton, and I think of his light touch. His feet have not moved from their position on the ladder and I have a daring thought, it’s so hot, I’m so sweaty, why not just take a wee sponge-bath while I wait? Forgetting about the promised refreshment, I quickly peel off my damp t-shirt, running cool water in the sink. I become so absorbed in my heat-relief, sluicing the coolness onto my face and letting it course down my neck, my parched throat, my now-even-more alert nipples that I don’t check through the window. I straighten, running my fingers through my now-dampened locks, and elbows in the air I find that I am face-to-face with the AC man on the opposite side of the glass, and he is caught in my headlights. His look of surprise quickly turns to appreciation and pure lust, forcing my face to smile in echo of my blithe breasts, which twist even tighter at his attention, tugging in earnest at the nerves which connect to the lonely caves of my netherworld. Mimicking the movements he makes with his hands, I put my own fingers to my bosom. Then without further thought I lean over, my hotly erect nipples teasing the cold of the porcelain sink, and open the window. As his lips meet mine it’s like honey to the back of my throat and I drink deeply of his nectar, and he, hummingbird-like is harvesting my sugars, and as I feel his tongue sliding over mine the juices are flowing freely now and Yes! His hand caresses my breast firmly, stroking the nipple between thumb and index finger, gently squeezing it... I let out a short gasp. I am rocking, rocking into his hand, rocking into the dark heaven of his lips and my brain repeats “Yes!” and again as my breath, panting, escapes my lips in a sigh and inwardly I say “Yes!”. How I long to touch the rest of him, the clean, chiseled lines, smooth hardness and my body cries “yes!” as we lean together, forming this fleshly frame through the window which then begins to rock. And suddenly he is gone, ripped from my arms like a stolen possession and it takes me a moment to realize what has happened even as my hand flies to my mouth as I say “omigod!” I lean forward, out the window and look down, and there he lies, looking for all the world like a fallen statue, thrown from its pedestal by some rebellious miscreants. Lucidity threatening to encroach upon my still-spinning head, I’m trying to think clearly but everything is muddled. I quickly grab an icepack from the freezer and my t-shirt, lying abandoned on the counter and I run outside, thinking, “What if I killed this poor man? Oh, shit, it won’t be Marshall coming home to find ME in pieces…” As I kneel beside him, feebly attempting to apply the icepack to his head, which I assume has taken the brunt of his fall, as no limbs lay at awkward angles, his eyelids begin to flicker and I’m falling into the wells of his dark eyes. I have the foresight to check his pupils, but they look o.k., and as I’m doing so I realize that while one hand is holding the icepack to this fallen hero’s head, the other is quite ineffectively still holding my t-shirt, which is certainly doing nothing to conceal my naked breasts. On a whim, I kiss his forehead, then his cheek, light spattering of tiny pecks as I ask “…where does it hurt?” I know he’s not injured too badly, because he smiles, and “Indy” style, points to his elbow, which I comply with a kiss. He points to his temple and I kiss him there as well, and more, so that before I know it, before I’m thinking about how this would look if anyone were home during the day in this neighborhood, I’m straddling him and his hands are cupped as if to cover my naked breasts and still I pester him with tiny kisses. As I lean toward him, my hair falls in his face, a shower of red-gold strands tickling his cheeks, so I threaten to torture him further, holding his hands as I lightly brush the fine tips across his face and chest, intentionally rubbing my bottom along the length of his marble-hard phallus. I refuse to think of what this must look like, me, sitting on top of this stranger in the middle of my yard in the middle of the day, until I remember nosy Mrs., Alabaster and suddenly leap to my feet. “I think we’d better go inside, where you can lie down…and rest. Your head has a lump there, now…” and I reach my hand out to him, invitingly. I lead him inside, and bypass the couch, which is far too short and uncomfortable for his size. I lead him to the next closest place—my bedroom, and he’s looking groggy as he lays back on the pillows. I look at him lying there in my bed, such a beautiful piece of work, and how guilty I feel for being the thoughtless huntsman to land this purveyor of hope, and shaking my head I turn and leave the room to get some towels and cool water. As I turn I notice a smile playing about his sensuous lips and I wonder whether it is a pleasant thought, or if he is teasing me, playing “Mommy kiss my boo-boo”. When I return with the revival tools, I notice he’s done some reviving of his own—there is a prominent bulge in his shorts again. Now I’m really convinced he’s only playing, and, glancing quickly at the bedposts, decide I’ll teach him a lesson, making me worry this way. After I return with my additional tools, I very carefully remove the last of my clothing and gently use my tongue to coax him to ‘consciousness’. I start with his delectable nipples, lingering there until they are both hard brown knots, hoping he is so distracted he does not notice what my hands are doing at his wrists. I move lower, slowly languishing my lips, my tongue following the river of dark hair down his bronze chest toward the delta where his thighs meet his hard torso, carefully avoiding the mounting volcano centered there. My careful attention and anticipation of the opening of his eyes is beginning to make me burn, I can’t help but rub my tight nipples against his flesh as I continue my solicitous ministrations. As I slowly work his shorts off, thinking all the while what a great actor he is to maintain his “sleep” this way, my bottom lips brush against my heel and I realize just how stimulated I’ve become, I’m fairly dripping wet, and the thought of this makes me even more excited. Having achieved nakedness, the resemblance of this virile specimen to my beloved “David” is even more apparent, only this “David” lying here so invitingly on my bed is so much more phallic, his tool rising from the dark tangled delta like a sceptre. I long to take this instrument into my mouth, but not yet, I still have tasks to do, so I satisfy myself with passing over with a hot breath. Finished with my preparations, I straddle this Adonis’ hips and begin kissing and licking his face, his ears, preceding my lips and tongue with a cool wet cloth for contrast. It doesn’t take long before his eyelids twitch, shutter-like opening to allow my image to enter the windows behind those dark eyelashes. He is clearly confused, but not unhappy with the situation, so my fears about my rash acts dissipate somewhat. His dark eyes cloud with lust, and I echo his desire in my moist response. He hasn’t moved yet, doesn’t realize what I’ve done. I smile lasciviously and bend to play with this lovely icon, this time not hesitating, but directing attention to the marble-like pillar. My tongue the sculptor’s tool now, I allow it to bathe him in loving caress, drawing from myself wells of passion untapped, here chiseling gently with the teeth, there smoothing with lips, all the while using my hands to knead the red clay of his testes, soapy fingers slipping once in a while to lightly probe the tightly twisted orifice beneath. Lightly I trace the veins which pop varicose-like from his raging shaft, flicking quickly like the amphibian I taste his head, tease around the ridge connecting the soft cap to the hard shank and how he tenses, the sounds emanating from his mouth like torture. His taut sac beginning to constrict and twitch, I slow my oral strokes and release the suction, pausing only to tease the enraged cap with the tip of my tongue, lightly tracing the underside. I then reach down beside the bed where I’ve left the water and cloth, and wringing it lightly I bring the dripping coolness to his chest, drizzling across his nipples as I draw my breasts up either side of his supplicating cock. Feeling a bit contrite I decide to tease him a bit more, so I sit straddling his eagerly imploring stiffness and stroke my own nipples, rubbing my moist anterior up and down his shaft. His eyes roll, he attempts to bring his hands to join mine until they are stopped short by the silken cords holding them steady to the bedposts. As the reality of his situation sinks in, I feel a twinge of guilt, he’s beginning to look fairly distressed, so I try to reassure him with a crooked smile and a teasing lick to his earlobe. With my hands I trace the sculptured smooth, tight muscles of his arms, shoulders, and hard pectorals. I lightly trace my fingernail along this human landscape, following with my tongue, leaving a wake of shivers behind. As I back myself down his tense abdomen, leaving a trail of musky spicy scent, I encounter the solid tip of his erection, which easily slips between my lips just a little, toe-testing the water. The muscles along his jaw are clenched and he has a look of almost-pain on his face. We are bathed in my scent, combined with the clean fresh-turned soil aroma of his impatience, and as I gaze at his anxious straining face I wonder why I punish this man so, hapless innocent hero who came only to rescue me? I realize then how I’ve been hungering, lonely and angry at Marshall for leaving me alone for these last few weeks, no matter how smilingly cooperative I seemed, how supportive of his goals. The anger burns deep in the pit of my belly, adding to the ferment already boiling there. Cautiously I weave my way towards his eager mouth, his tongue beckons for a taste of my percolating misery and as I hover over his face, keeping just out of reach, dipping, teasing, until I too am reaching the boiling point. Finally I can stand it no longer and grind my hips into his beseeching face and how insolent and nasty it feels. Thoughts of punishing Marshall begin to flood my brain, I’m moaning my discontent as I whet my eager gasping lips on the stone of his zealous tongue, one hand holding the headboard as the other punishes my unruly nipples. The idea of my husband walking in at just this moment sends the volcano on its final spume, the blistering walls of my sex throbbing, wetness spewing hot molten lava on his face. Like the great Vesuvius, my job is not complete until Pompeii is buried beneath liquid rock, so I relinquish his golden tongue and move for the final plunge. Ever so slowly I lower my still-pulsating cleft over his hardness, clenching like a fist as we meet at last, taking my absolute revenge upon absence, firmly milking my punishment from this all-too-willing accomplice. As his marble wand reaches full invasion I rock, sparking a new series of internal vibrations, low rumbling aftershocks radiating from deep within, so I match my rhythm to the waves, my head thrown back in rhapsody. I stop my motion only long enough to reach for the cords on his wrists, wordlessly questioning with my facial expression whether he would prefer them untied, but his eyes say, no, leave them,. I use his shoulders instead as leverage against the aching tide and together we rock, no gentle lapping waves but thundering surf, pounding the rocky shore, pulverizing solid stone into sand. Our motion so extreme, his oar is nearly leaving the water at each stroke, my inner muscles tense and release, automatically adjusting to his unrelenting thrust. His hips drive upward, impaling me pitilessly as I scream for no mercy, my tight grip on his shoulders my only anchor as my nails leave welting trails behind. One final squeeze and the pressure valve releases, spewing its pent-up deposit deep inside my vault, and I fall, exhausted, spent atop the spender, our molten white gold fortunes mingling together between us and surrounding us on the sheets, the scent of sticky sex permeating the air. Only one question then remains, so I lift my head from the heady perfume of mixed messages on his chest and ask: “What is your name, anyway?” © 1999 Jean Savage   © 1995- 2003 Peacockblue, Venetiandreams and the Creative of the piece as indicated by byline. All rights reserved. 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