Bone Appetit

Author wobbear
Rating T (ish)
Disclaimer The characters aren't mine and I write for fun.
Author's note This one is a bit different from my usual fare. I'd love it if you would read and comment anyway. Much appreciation to smacky30 for her beta-ness.

Summary Some desires are all consuming

I love this.

The feeling, the flavor, the texture, even the sound as I get into it. I never thought it was so amazing, so thrilling before. Yeah, sure, I did it in the past—but I guess I never really thought about it much before I met Gilbert Grissom.

He has this way about him, about the whole … process that makes it special. Every time.

At the beginning, I was inclined to go fast, too fast, almost gobbling. He'd tell me to slow down, that slower would be better. He never demanded it, but I could tell that he would prefer it. Soon I did what Gil suggested. No real surprise that he was right. Stretching it out a bit worked great; increasing the anticipation, making the taste and the sensations last longer.

I can't get away from the plain honest truth.

I love doing this. I do.

I'm sounding like I have a one-track mind, and that's not right. Not by far. I mean, the companionship, the knowing he's always looking out for me, caring for me, worrying about me, that indescribable feeling I get when his tired face lights up on seeing me—that's wonderful, and it's all part of the whole deal.

I do hold back if he's tired, or asleep. I can wait. I like to think I don't make unreasonable demands on him.

But I know Gil enjoys it too. It was his idea to do it this way in the first place. Maybe it's strange, but this works for us.

Gil sits and I'm on the floor. I always end up between his legs, going at it. Head down, pushing forward, sometimes I bump one of his knees in my enthusiasm. Or I end up leaning against his thigh. He used to stand, but this is easier on his knees.

He doesn't speak much. Sometimes I get concerned and look up in case something's wrong.

I shouldn't worry.

Usually he has a soft smile on his face so I relax, get back to business. Every so often he does speak: "yes!"; "you love this, don't you?"; "yeah, that's good"; "you're fine, just keep going like you were." But mostly it's just small sighs. Pleasure-filled. At least, that's what I think they are. I get pretty intent on the task at hand—it's more the task at lips, or in mouth, if I'm being precise, but you know what I mean.

Sometimes he reaches down with his hand, caresses my head, stroking the lines away from my brow, gently touching whatever he can reach. Then there are the days when Gil closes his eyes, leaning back in his seat and we both listen to my slurping, the occasional snuffle or a gasp when I realize I've forgotten to breathe. Once my jaw made a cracking noise when I forced my mouth too wide open; haven't done that again.

I've tried, but I can't be quiet. He says he doesn't mind, it's all part of the experience.

It's … bliss. So much more than I ever expected. Not in my wildest fantasies. Once a day, and sometimes even twice on Sunday. No-one else I've known has ever wanted to do it like this—not that I'm complaining. He says it's normal, not unusual at all, that he can't NOT do it.

This need in me, Gil feeds like no other.

Because he loves me.

I love him right back. We've been clear on that from the start. And I do my best to show it.

There are times when the intervals between stretch out. Work, exhaustion, social or professional duties—bunches of things can intervene. And yes then, I feel a little ache down deep, a little pang of hunger, of need, but I know he'll be here with me, for me, when he can.

Double shifts louse things up. A lot.

We adapt to circumstances.

I'm younger and fitter than him—and I know that's an issue for him. However much I tell him it doesn't matter to me, he shakes his head and stares at me with those melancholy blue eyes and says, "You don't understand … you can't."

Frankly, I'm not always in the mood either. Those times are much rarer, but they do happen. Gil's okay with it, he just talks me to me softly as we go through to the bedroom. He touches me gently, sweetly as we settle down. His last words as he drifts off are always to wish me a good sleep.

I'd like to say it's a win/win situation, but lately there hasn't been anything to celebrate.

It's been rough for him. Me too, but I've still got him. He's my one and only, so … I'll be okay. I'm worried about him though.

These days he's looking tired all the time, and so sad. He goes to sleep quickly, but wakes up an hour or two later and stares at the ceiling. Or feeds his bugs. He's very good to his pets; I swear they're the best-fed insects in the country.

And he's quiet. Really quiet. At home Gil's a man of few words anyway, so now he's approaching mono-syllabic. I think he tries harder at work, so the others don't hassle him too much, but when he gets home he's on his last legs and it's just too much effort.

I know what's wrong. But I don't know how to help him, what to do to make it better. And I don't want to admit that I can't.

Today he's really low.

So I snuggle in close, nuzzle him gently and make him look at me. I try to make my expression as warm and caring as I can. He sees my brown eyes pleading with him to let me help and it hurts so much when I see the tears rise and he turns away, pressing his lids closed. He bites his lower lip but the tears sneak out anyway and I watch them trickle down his cheeks. It's the saddest thing, to watch tears drip off your beloved's chin, and to know that however much you love him, you're not the one he needs right now.

"I know it's hard," I say. "But let's try to get through this time as best we can." I nudge his knee and try to get him off the sofa, outside, if only to the neighborhood park, "Let's go out and enjoy the fresh air."

It'll help the time pass, if nothing else.

He's sobbing, almost silently, but his shoulders shudder and his breath rasps raggedly in and out. Gil leans forward, putting his head in his hands, rubbing his eyelids, his temples.

I move to sit in front of him on the floor, in my favorite spot, so he'll see me if he opens his eyes. I wait, hoping my quiet supportive presence is doing some good. I want to reach out to him, but I know he wants, no needs, to deal with this himself.

As I watch, the heaving slowly abates and he starts to breathe deeply, willing himself back to me. Soon he swipes the back of his hand across his eyes, then opens them properly, looks at me.

He tries to smile. It's a pale shadow of his real ones, but I appreciate the effort. Gil reaches out and puts his hand on my collar.

Edging closer, I hit my bowl. It's always around here, but I forgot. It clatters on the hard floor and the sound echoes hollowly in the cavernous room.

He gives me the sign to stand. Levering himself to his feet, he makes his way to the door and unhooks my leash from its place.

Yes!

We're going for a walk in the park. I forget all our worries for a moment; I'm hyped up—walkies!

Gil's strained voice cuts through my excitement. "Maybe we'll hear from Sara tomorrow, eh Bruno?"

Yeah, maybe we will.

-----------------------

In the park we play fetch.

Even when he's hurting, Gil's got a great throwing arm. And he gets a bit of color in his cheeks, so it's all good.

On the way back, I start thinking about food again. Can't help it. When we get home, it'll be time.

Back home, I drink big out of my water bowl then go sit in the usual place, facing the sofa. I look over at Gil, who's having his own water from a glass.

"Yeah," he says. "It's about that time. Where's your bowl?"

I search, and paw it out from under the coffee table. I watch as he grabs the bag of kibble from the high cupboard, the one I can't reach. He comes over and sits in front of me, fills the dish and holds it high above his head.

After I beg nicely he bends down, setting it between his feet. His quiet "good dog" means I can start, and I go for it, chomping and slurping and snuffling. It's not pretty, but I am what I am.

I love my food.

But not like Gil loves his Sara.

END