In the Early Morning Darkness

I wake at 3:22. The insistent red of the digital clock display taunting me yet again. I do so despise waking before the alarm demands such a thing of me. He lays next to me. One leg under the sheet, one leg over, torso bare. I run my hand down from between shoulder blades, down to the small of his back. I love that curve there, where the muscles tighten on either side of his spine, the little dip where if you melted an ice cube the water would pool. Then I run my hand lower still to the upward swell of his buttocks. He has the nicest bottom. Pale in the scant light coming from the window, the streetlight just across the road casting barely perceivable shadows across his smooth skin. As he has aged hair has come more and more to chest and arms, legs and face, but his bottom remains covered only in the finest and lightest colored down.

I run my hand over the curve of his ass. He moans, even in sleep he responds to my touch. This is nice. Down a little lower to where bottom becomes thigh I stroke, over strong, thick thighs from hard, long hours of real work. Work that leaves him tired and aching, work that he is proud of and allows him to look back over his shoulder and see something tangible there for others to enjoy and never realize the pain it is to his body. I rub there at that invisible line between thigh and ass, stroke from back to side, inside thigh and outside thigh. The muscles there are different as night and day. Inner thigh seems vulnerable and tender, outer thigh thick and impossible strong. Up again I move my hand to that sweet ass that loves my touch. He is awake now, not speaking, but the contented sigh I know is one not from dreams, but from my touch.

And so I grow bolder with my touch, rubbing not just those angel soft hairs that cover pale white skin, but deeper still to the muscles that tighten and bunch under my hand as he flexes and turns to offer me a better angle. He lays flat on his stomach and turns his head to me. I can see the small bit of light reflect off his now open eyes. And I smile, he may not be able to see in the dark shadows of early morning, but I offer him my smile none the less as my hand continues to alternate between deep rubs and teasing touches.

His back arches just a little as he raises that sweet bottom up straining for more contact, more of my touch. The dip at the small of his back grows deeper with this and I glide my other hand down it, heal of my hand pressing against the skin that covers his spine. I delight in the sweep of it.

I move myself between his now spread wide thighs. I kneel there and reach for his ass with both palms, cupping his cheeks, digging deeper into muscles with fingertips, the pads of my thumbs rubbing small circles. Then, quite suddenly and with no warning, verbal or otherwise, I raise my hands from his body, from his skin, and bring the right down with significant force.

“Ohhhhh,” is the only word her offers as the sound of the stinging slap resounds against the quiet walls of very early morning. I can feel the lingering tingle in my own fingertips and I go back to rubbing softly, barely skimming his body and I can, already, feel the welts rising in the pattern of my hand there on his skin. Again I raise my hands from him and again I bring my right down onto the other cheek of his ass and again the moan comes from him as a barely understandable, breathless, “Ohhhhhh.”

I continue this rubbing and these stinging smacks one after another until the skin so pale in the bit of light I am sure is no longer simply white, but I do know it will now be a lovely pale shade of pink. I am instantly pleased as he not only arches up to me, but spreads his legs wider for me as I continue to rub strong back, ass and thigh, but then reach down lower and cup what he really wants me to touch. I tug then on hip and thigh, no words are necessary as he knows instantly I want him on hands and knees. I want better access to that part of him that has responded so positively to these small abuses to eager skin.

I take the length of him in my hand. The power I feel at this moment is exquisite. Kneeling there in the early morning with him firmly in my control, with ass still aching from just my hand offering it sting after sting of pleasurable pain. I feel all the desire I have for this man welling up. I stroke him, down and back, tugging on that root of his being feeling the desire he has for what I want from him in an entirely real and growingly significant way. I know how he wants this. I know from every moan what it is he desires as I stroke and stroke and stroke that which I have mastery of. I love the feel of him like this, at my mercy, at my command. I whisper three words into the dark and he moans yet again and does almost instantly as I have told, does as I have demanded. He can not deny me what I order, he can not hold back from what I want. And I know just how he likes it in this moment, as I put one hand hard on the small of his back and pull down tight and hard with my other, as it is wrapped around his beautiful self that pulses against my warm palm and he offers to me that most precious gift of ultimate desire.

As the passion peeks and he is spent he lays his body back down again and I curl against him. Curves fitting against curves, bodies made to fit as if a puzzle pieced together. Eyes drift shut and soft murmurs of affection and pleasure weave a spell of bliss in the still dark of the room. I can again sleep, wrapped in love and peaceful contentment.