If He Asked You
If He Asked You
If He Asked You
If He Asked You
by Narida Law
~~~~~~~~
He ran a hand along his jaw, the rasp of his stubble loud in
the small room. His eyes were fixed on you, unable to hide
his curiosity. "Do you do it a lot?"
The request had thrown you off guard. You had thought it
good-natured ribbing at first, and that was all right. But
he seemed intent on getting a real answer from you, and that
made you uneasy. Uncomfortable. In all your years together,
he had never before asked anything quite so personal.
***
You understand what he wants, that this is why you are here.
You sit across from one another on his bed, naked. Your legs
are folded under you; your calves meet the backs of your
thighs, and the soles of your feet cradle the soft skin of
your ass. Your knees are parted, revealing the area of your
body that has his current searing attention. For the past
few moments, his gaze has fluctuated between your pussy and
your breasts, and both areas are now tight with arousal. You
want to know when this staring contest will end, but tonight
it seems that he is calling the shots. It was planned this
way.
When he draws back, his fingers are sticky and wet with your
excretions.
His lips are so close to your own that you can't resist, and
soon the two of you are kissing with the ferocity of lovers
who have been apart for far too long. By your count, it has
been a few days since your last mating, and you have missed
one another. It's no wonder you can't get enough of kissing
him, of feeling your tongues push and rub and slide
together, happy to be reunited.
You lift up a little and then lower yourself onto him, his
hardness penetrating your soft folds easily. He's not
wearing a condom, he never does, and you gasp at the flesh-
on-flesh contact. He's distracted from all the kissing he's
doing by your current activities. You want to take it slow
because you're tight and you need time to adjust to his
size, but he is impatient and pulls you down emphatically,
making you take every inch of him in one long thrust. Now,
you and he throb in unison.
His hands move from your back to your waist as you bury your
face against his neck. You latch onto him, sucking at his
neck, taking his skin between your teeth, tasting the
saltiness there, and want desperately to swallow him whole.
You move on him, bracing your hands on his chest. You lean
forward so that his penis brushes against your aching clit
on every stroke.
Your face now lying against the bed sheets, your arms move
around to the backs of your thighs, then in between. You can
see his face with the eye that's not blocked by the sheets,
and he's watching your movements with enthrallment and
dilated pupils. You spread your folds for him, inviting him
in.
He grasps his cock with one hand and moves so that you can
feel the tip of him brushing against your entrance. He
squeezes just the head of himself inside, then drapes
himself over you. Your skin and his are both damp with
perspiration, but still it feels good to be rubbing against
him like this.
Without warning his rhythm stops, and he pulls out and away.
You feel like screaming in frustration, in disappointment.
"Do you fuck him like this?" he asks, and disoriented, you
don't understand the question. You sit up and turn around.
He is on his knees, his erection straining toward you. You
notice that he is shaking slightly; he isn't quite as calm
as he'd like you to believe.
You enjoy hearing his hoarse cries; you like making him
crazy for you. One of your hands comes up to cup his balls;
they're tight and firm in the cradle of your palm. You knead
them gently as you continue to suck his dick with almost
religious fervor, concentrating on the head, the most
sensitive area of his penis.
He pulls you away from him, and he leaves your mouth with a
long, wet, sliding suction. He's breathing shallowly, and
his eyes are drunk with desire. You know that he's close.
You look at him, asking silently if you can help take the
edge off of his immediate need. He can do this himself, but
you want to do it. He acquiesces, visibly trying to regain
control, and you quickly place your thumb just under the
head of his cock and your index finger on the other side,
then squeeze, holding that position for a good five seconds
while the wildness fades a little from his eyes. When he's
ready, he grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away.
His hands force your hips down just as his lower body slams
upward into you, and the collision makes your teeth rattle.
If you weren't holding on to the headboard, the two of you
would have gone flying backwards.
"Oh GOD!" you cry, and three words are running amok in your
mind, more feeling than thought, colliding, then separating,
then fusing in a universal chaos that actually makes sense.
I love you ... you I love ... love you ... loveyouloveyou
... IloveyouIloveyouIlove. And it's possible that these
words have spilled from your heart into the open air, too
powerful to be contained, but it doesn't matter because you
want to sharethemsharethemIloveyou.
For some reason, he then leans over and pulls open a drawer
from the nightstand next to the bed. He reaches in and pulls
out a small black box you recognize has to be from an
expensive jewelry store. Bemused, you watch as he flips it
open and takes out the small glinting object from where it's
nestled in its satin bed. If you weren't surrounded by a
cloud of post-coital bliss, you might be paying more
attention. But as it dawns on you what he's holding, you can
hardly see it because your heart is in your throat and what
you know to be tears are blocking your vision.
For a long time he just holds the ring between his thumb and
index finger, twisting it and causing the light to hit the
small cluster of diamonds from different angles. You're
mesmerized. It glitters like nothing you have ever seen, and
you wonder if you could possibly be mistaken, if your brain
is sending out the right information.
Staring straight ahead, you try not to shiver when you feel
his warm, dry lips against your ear. When he finally speaks,
his soft whisper is a deep rumble of sound that travels in a
lazy tingle from your ear to your toes. "Would you marry him
if he asked?"
"Mulder ... " You twist around because you want to see his
face, and you get a fleeting glimpse of hazel before he
closes his eyes, shutting you out. You realize he doesn't
want you to look at him, so you turn and face forward again.
The tears have traveled from your eyes to your throat (your
heart is back where it belongs and has swelled to gargantuan
proportions), and it takes you a moment to respond, although
the answer to his query wants to jump off of your tongue.
You can feel his heart thumping madly against your back, and
finally you find your voice again. "Yes, I would marry him
if he asked."
"Okay," he says at last, his tone uneven. You swear that his
long, gentle fingers are trembling as he takes your left
hand and slips the ring onto the proper finger. "It fits
perfectly," he says, a note of pleased surprise in his
voice.
"Like it was made for me," you agree. You don't quite
believe that this is happening. "It's very pretty." You wish
your voice wouldn't quaver like that ... and while you're
making wishes, you might as well wish you hadn't uttered
such a gross understatement.
At this point, you vow that nothing will ever be able to pry
this ring from your finger. In fact, you have a good mind to
go on a chocolate cheesecake diet so that your hands will
get fat and swell up, and no amount of butter or soap will
be able to get this small piece of jewelry off of your
chubby digit.
You think this is not worth a response, and turn back around
because you're getting a crick in your neck, anyway.
He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek and nuzzles his nose
into the side of your neck, then caresses your stomach until
you fall asleep.
=End=