I know I'm loved. Not a day goes by when I don't hear it, just like I hear
it now. "I love you, Harry."
And I feel the hands running down my sides, and their touch is warm and teasing. Softness, so full, so promising, so wrong, presses into my chest. The caresses are tentative and pleasant, where they should be sure, firm, masterful. I'm being given something precious, while all I want is to be taken.
Sweet lips open over mine, and a titillating kiss tries to make do for a ravishing one.
And I look into brown eyes that should be gray.
Thighs spread around my waist, and soft moist warmth teases my cock, where I yearn for heated hardness.
Skilled, giving, that too small, too lush mouth slides down my body. It keeps granting light touches that should drive me mad, and awake some primal instinct. I manfully do my best not to laugh. Lips and narrow tongue brush over my nipple, but the lick never becomes a bite.
Hands pull me against this curvy body, so rounded, so welcoming, so far off from my desires. Dainty hands, rounded fingernails, tickling and enticing, where - how can anyone miss this! - I want them claiming me, pushing me into the mattress and posing me for their pleasure.
And this mouth blows a warm puff of air against my swollen cock, while I'm sure that one would have dived in without preamble. When the lips take in the red tip timidly, I half hope for a moment of blind lust to obliterate this worship. I am denied, because my lover is determined to be generous.
I tangle my hands into long hair, much too long. Much too vividly red. Much too not right.
I regret it soon, as a whimper that is too high pitched ravages what feeble threads of illusion my mind is trying to weave against the evidence of my senses.
I bite my lip and swallow chuckles as - in a feat of daring, no doubt - a finger rubs behind my balls, and around my puckered entrance. So respectful, that soft pad, never once pressing in, just tracing little circles. Circles that go nowhere, repeating endlessly, and almost lulling, when they ought to make me quiver in anticipation of something so far from them to deliver.
My own hands betray me as they run over skin that is so smooth, so buff, so well tended that not a single hair remains on it. I try to tell my eyes to notice this skin's paleness, its wintry tone that is almost a perfect match with my desires, but the freckles will not be ignored.
Eventually my body does what is expected, and the charade ends. My lover curls around me to be cuddled. This is the ultimate blow to my delusion, and the only demand of my lover who unknowingly tries to fill in for my rival. But can't. Not quite. Not at all.
And I feel the hands running down my sides, and their touch is warm and teasing. Softness, so full, so promising, so wrong, presses into my chest. The caresses are tentative and pleasant, where they should be sure, firm, masterful. I'm being given something precious, while all I want is to be taken.
Sweet lips open over mine, and a titillating kiss tries to make do for a ravishing one.
And I look into brown eyes that should be gray.
Thighs spread around my waist, and soft moist warmth teases my cock, where I yearn for heated hardness.
Skilled, giving, that too small, too lush mouth slides down my body. It keeps granting light touches that should drive me mad, and awake some primal instinct. I manfully do my best not to laugh. Lips and narrow tongue brush over my nipple, but the lick never becomes a bite.
Hands pull me against this curvy body, so rounded, so welcoming, so far off from my desires. Dainty hands, rounded fingernails, tickling and enticing, where - how can anyone miss this! - I want them claiming me, pushing me into the mattress and posing me for their pleasure.
And this mouth blows a warm puff of air against my swollen cock, while I'm sure that one would have dived in without preamble. When the lips take in the red tip timidly, I half hope for a moment of blind lust to obliterate this worship. I am denied, because my lover is determined to be generous.
I tangle my hands into long hair, much too long. Much too vividly red. Much too not right.
I regret it soon, as a whimper that is too high pitched ravages what feeble threads of illusion my mind is trying to weave against the evidence of my senses.
I bite my lip and swallow chuckles as - in a feat of daring, no doubt - a finger rubs behind my balls, and around my puckered entrance. So respectful, that soft pad, never once pressing in, just tracing little circles. Circles that go nowhere, repeating endlessly, and almost lulling, when they ought to make me quiver in anticipation of something so far from them to deliver.
My own hands betray me as they run over skin that is so smooth, so buff, so well tended that not a single hair remains on it. I try to tell my eyes to notice this skin's paleness, its wintry tone that is almost a perfect match with my desires, but the freckles will not be ignored.
Eventually my body does what is expected, and the charade ends. My lover curls around me to be cuddled. This is the ultimate blow to my delusion, and the only demand of my lover who unknowingly tries to fill in for my rival. But can't. Not quite. Not at all.