Portia Costa - A Touch of Heaven

That last question seems to be the most important. In my mind, I suddenly see him and start to blush.

How could I have let him touch me like that? What the hell was I thinking? I talk to the guy for the first time ever one minute, and the next I’m letting him touch me and make me come. Sometimes I really am too stupid to be alive.

Fishing around for my robe, I monitor my body. There are the usual twinges and aches here and there, but nothing too serious. In fact, I feel better than I have done for a long time. It must be the massage . Despite everything, I have to laugh. Illicit orgasms sure beat ibuprofen and heat wraps any time.

Down in the garden, there’s no sign of my mysterious therapist, and I’m disappointed, despite the potential for embarrassment at our next meeting. There’s no blanket, no picnic detritus and no Patrick. The garden looks strangely empty and cold despite the sunshine, and even the plants and flowers look more bedraggled than they did yesterday. When we were talking, and touching, everything down there seemed lush and juicy, almost technicolor, and now it all looks ordinary again.

Because Patrick’s not there, the garden doesn’t attract me this morning, and turning to the bed, I frown, still wondering how I got here. My stomach grumbles and it dawns on me I’m starving.

What the hell happened to me? Did I pass out from pleasure or something? Did Patrick carry me up the stairs and tuck my fleeces around me and leave me to sleep it off? It’s all a mystery, a blank spot, completely weird.

A glance at the clock sets a fire under me. Shit, I’m supposed to be working at the charity shop this morning, and I’ve only got around an hour to shower and dress and get halfway across town. Looks like I’ll be in the car today. I usually walk, but at my pace I’ll never get there in time to open up.

But first breakfast, and lots of it. My appetite is enormous, and my body feels well and full of zest, despite its problems. I guess that’s what happens when you’re well and truly pleasured.

By the time I return from my stint at the charity shop, and from running errands for one or two old neighbors in the avenue, it’s well after lunchtime and I’m starving again. It’s been a hectic morning and also still confusing.

I still can’t remember quite what happened yesterday, and I’m more puzzled than ever about the beautiful man who touched me so exquisitely. None of my neighbors ever seem to have seen him, nor were they aware the house next door to me was occupied.

I make a meal and eat in the kitchen, staring out across the back lawn, looking for my beautiful enigma. The house and garden across the dwarf hedge look desolate, uninhabited, and as I consume my omelet and salad without a great deal of enthusiasm, I begin to wonder if what happened yesterday was just a dream. A fantasy conjured by a middle-aged woman who’s finally ready for sex again after a period of sensual drought.

Frustration, that’s it. I look out over the garden and scowl at the rain that’s just started to fall. I’m horny, and somehow, I got sucked in deep by a really vivid daydream. I imagined an idealized man and then masturbated myself into a stupor, dreaming about him.

Possibly.

The trouble is I sincerely wish he was real, even if he is mysterious and dangerous. And as is my wont, a bit too young for me into the bargain.

The rain is heavier now and the drone of it weighs me down. I don’t know what to do with my afternoon, and none of my usual pastimes appeal to me. Television seems boring. Reading-can’t summon interest in my book. Going online and seeing who’s chatting on various social media sites-well, that all seems trivial, more unreal than my crazy fantasies and not nearly as much fun. I decide on a shower first, and then lie on my bed in hopes of a nap, listening to the raindrops pattering on my balcony through the open patio doors.

Pretty soon I’m drifting along the hinterland of sleep and hello, hello, Patrick comes a calling in my daydream, just as I’d hoped he might.

We’re on the blanket together again, beneath the tree down there, and he’s kissing me, his beautiful naked body pressed close to mine. His hands rove over me, and mine over him, and at last I get a chance to stroke his penis.

He’s hard and hot and fine, and he moans as I strum along his length and then play naughtily with his glans. His breath is warm, like a wind from heaven as he pushes and pushes and pushes into my grip.

I love touching him. I want to pleasure him, just as I wanted to yesterday. It was all about me down there on the blanket, but this time, next time, I want it to be about him too.

Assuming there is a next time.

Sliding my fingers between my thighs, I imagine it’s him. First, he’s touching me with fingers, then moving over me, pressing in with his cock. Of course masturbating doesn’t really feel like penetration, but I can dream, hell yes, I can dream.

He pushes into me, and it feels like he’s entering my soul as much as my body. Dream Patrick is all warmth, light, energy, positivity, hope. With him to pleasure me, I’d barely think about my aches and pains and middle age at all. With him I could be as young and free as springtime.

Rubbing myself, I writhe on my big lonely bed, lost in my fantasy, imagining my beautiful lover powering in and out, in and out, his mouth peppering my face with kisses as he fucks me wildly. It’s glorious, fabulous, and just what I want. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since…since…since I soared to orgasm yesterday, and then passed out, senseless.

Pretty soon I’m there today too. I climax sharply, shouting, “Patrick. Patrick.” I’m way beyond caring that the windows are wide open, and if he were out in the garden enjoying the rain, he’d surely hear me. Behind my tightly closed eyes, I see his face and his marvelous smile, and as I throb and throb, I seem to hear my own blood pulsing and beating like the sound of giant waves.

Replete, I collapse back on the bed, smiling, loving the way pleasure always seems to make me feel so much better. Even if it’s pleasure I’ve taken alone. I relax against the duvet, hand still between my thighs, and start to drift. Not dreaming of sex this time, but just companionship. His presence, his voice, his kindness.

I wonder who he is and where he is. Whether I’ll ever see him again.

Several moments pass before I realize I can hear breathing now. It’s soft and close, within feet of me…and it’s not mine.

Dear God, Patrick is sitting cross-legged on the bed, barely inches away from my feet.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I drag my wrap together and clutch it closed as I scoot right up the mattress to the pillows and jam myself against the headboard.

What’s going on? How did he get here? How could I not feel the mattress sink under his weight?

I blink like a fool. I’m gasping as if I’ve been running. What is going on?

“I’m sorry I’ve startled you. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

His voice is so contrite and sweet, and the expression on his face so perplexed that he almost seems as flabbergasted as I am. But still, what the dickens… Even he, as lovely as he is, shouldn’t come creeping and sneaking into my bedroom and spying on me while I’m…I’m…Well, while I’m doing what I was doing.

“Jesus, Patrick, you really are the living end, you know. Couldn’t you have knocked or whatever?” I glance at the door, but I’m sure he didn’t come in that way. He must have come up the outside steps and through the open doors, but I can’t for the life of me work out how he got up here without the staircase creaking and groaning the way it usually does. And somehow he’s managed to cross the room without me even being aware of him too.