More than Love
by VoyWriter
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Strong hands pressed against tired muscles, working out the pressures of the day.
Sloughing off the tedium of duty shift that comes when there is nothing between
stars but space for days and nights and days.
It left one lost. Looking for some opportunity for comfort and companionship.
Looking for some familiar guidepost, signpost, wayside rest to curl against and
grab onto. To hold your heart and mind and soul and let you know there is
another who wants your tenderness. Who sees beyond your uniform and rank to
your heart and soul. And knows there is a person there who yearns and aches and
loves like you.
It seemed some kind of miracle that there was a mirror to his soul who offered up
companionship and trust without a hint of obligation, just desire.
He worked his hands lower still against his lover’s back and rear, finding familiar
hard and soft and taut and ease. His mouth followed in a trail, the tip of tongue
featherlight against the flesh, tasting, savoring, a bit of spice and sweat.
“Turn over,” he whispered huskily, straddling, shifting for the move.
Thighs slid and curved and rolled on one another until erections touched and
kissed with passion more than words or lips could tell.
And there were groans, and breathing off, then on, then off again.
Now hands took his own and pressed them in a silent prayer around familiar
hardness, the other and his own, making both the same. Pulse and breath and
heartbeat all the same. Heat and tension. Motion.
And then a blur, flipped on his back, a tongue against his crack and rear and then
a finger pushed inside and a second. All the while a hand still pulsing his
erection. It was stunning. It was glory.
He raised his hips and felt familiar length and strength and breadth press hard
within him, pause and move some more, so slowly he was forced to make his own
push back to gain the motion that he wanted, that he needed.
He gasped. Panted. Felt the power inside. Felt the passion out. Moved in tandem.
Single motion. Not slow motion. Pumping. Screaming. Exhalation. Wetness in
and out.
And then collapse. Arms and legs and bodies, and still entangled in the most
intimate of ways. He shifted, pressed his lips to his lover’s mouth, tasted the
richness of lips and tongue and spit. Entered there as he’d been entered, tongue
both probe and butterfly. Stayed till breath had left and then departed too,
reaching up to trace familiar lines of a tattoo before he slept.
finis