It takes a lot of imagination to make long-distance love work. Phone sex and e-mail flirtation aren't the same as having a warm body to reach for in the night. Sometimes, though, they're even better. When Mark comes home with a bunch of flowers and a sheepish look on his face, I know that he's got to travel for work again. This is the third time in as many months that he's left me on my own for a week while he goes off to client meetings all over the world.
"So where is it this time?" I ask him sulkily, offering him my cheek, not my lips, when he bends down for his kiss. "Tokyo? Seattle? Munich?" I turn away. I don't mean to snap, and really I should be grateful; Mark is six feet two of gorgeous husband: funny, sexy, faithful, and a right horny little bastard. He would be perfect if only he were here a little more often. His sales job at IT means that we have our gorgeous home and that my own salary is pretty much pocket money. Because of Mark I have an amazing lifestyle. So I really shouldn't complain.
I just miss him so desperately when he goes away. I can't sleep alone and, my God, the sex! I miss the sex. Five years into our relationship, I thought it would have tailed off by now, but it's become deeper and more intense than ever. And to go without him for ten days, another ten days, well, it's just unthinkable.
"Baby," says Mark, drawing me into his arms and combing through my hair with his fingers, a magic touch that melts my insides. Even when I'm trying to sulk and be angry with him, he knows just which buttons to press to calm and soothe me. "It's only for a week this time. We can talk every day. I'll miss you, too, but it won't be for long."
"When are you going?" I say, looking up into those handsome green eyes of his.
"Tomorrow," he says, looking guilty again. "But I'll make it up to you."
He kisses me again, and this time I don't resist, let his tongue slip between my lips and probe my mouth.
When his hand goes between my legs I'm more than ready for him. We peel off each other's clothes with more urgency than usual, aware that this is the last time for seven days. We lie on the bed for a couple of minutes, just kissing-that's all he has to do-and before he's even touched my clitoris, I'm spreading my legs as wide as they can go, showing him my soaking slit and telling him how much I want him. And then he's in me, filling me up like no one else can.
Let me tell you about Mark's dick. I don't know quite how, but it's as if it was made for my body. The first time I felt him inside me, it was like I was complete for the first time in my life. It's a pale biscuit color, and it stands upright above two smooth, even balls. It's long, but what I like best about it is its girth: every time he presses against my pussy with that smooth, rounded head I know he's going to be inside me, stretching me pleasantly, moving around and probing every inch of my cunt.
And that's what I'm feeling right now as my pussy muscles hug and massage his hard-on. Mark pulls out a little bit and drives into me with a force that borders on aggression because he knows that I love, live for, those moments when he first gets inside me. He does this for maybe two, three minutes, watching my face, reading the signs of my body. He knows just the right moment to trip me over the edge into my climax with his finger on my clitoris. As I reach my orgasm, it's bittersweet, and my contractions force him to come, too. We hold each other for a while, drift off to sleep with sticky sheets and limbs, smelling of each other's bodies.
When I wake up it's four a.m. and Mark is packing his case ready for his early-morning flight. He leans in and kisses me good-bye. I show him that my nipples are hard and reach for his cock, but he shakes his head; there's no time. Last night's fuck should have me satisfied for the lonely days ahead, but on the contrary, it's just left me more frustrated. Mark's dick is addictive: the more I have it, the more I want it and need it. I hear the door close behind him and manage to grab another couple of hours' sleep.
When I wake up again, it's eight thirty and I'm dangerously late for work. I throw back the bedclothes, jump in the shower, dress, and hop in my car, just about making it to my desk in time for my nine a.m. meeting. But I might as well have stayed home. All day I think about Mark, replaying what happened last night, wondering how I'll get through the next week till we can do it again.
