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Pillow Stories

Fog

by Raziel Moore
(12/23/09)

"Fog tomorrow morning, the weather says. You said it casually, like it was, well, the weather, spoken over coffee at the kitchen table before work. But I knew different. I knew why you said it.

A cold front coming, breaking the brief spring heat wave. That could draw the moisture off the river and sock in the city for half the morning. I knew you'd been waiting for it, because you told me so in the warm cocoon of our winter bed. I hoped that the winds would shift and blow the front in another direction. You told me where we'd go, and when we'd go there, and what we'd do. What you'd do to me. You'd said it just that once, and I never forgot, though I'd hoped you did, until today.

I did all right at work, though I was distracted. I checked the weather too often. I fidgeted. I went for a walk through the park. It's a beautiful park, a great square of green and blue in the center of the city, surrounded by the high-rises of business on two sides, and residences on the other two. I walked along the winding path, lined by greening trees, around the big arc of the northern field, where college kids were lying out and playing Frisbee in the young grass, reveling in a bright, clear, warm day of spring promise. The walk settled me for a time, but didn't comfort me. By the end of the day, and through dinner I was antsy, though you were perfectly civil and wonderful as always. Attentive, caring, loving. We ate, talked, read, snuggled, went to bed, just like normal. But still I couldn't fall asleep until far too late.

The alarm startled me awake. It was 5 am. Too early! I mumbled and rolled over, seeking your warmth, but you weren't there.

"Get up," you said. You were standing by the bed, dressed in your gray sweats. It was the tone in your voice that made me remember. I wanted to hide under the covers, but I knew it wouldn't be an escape. I groaned a protest and emerged. You pointed to the clothes you'd laid out for me. My powder gray sweatpants and shirt, socks for my sneakers, but no panties and no bra.

You saw my hesitation, and said "Let's go. It will be light soon."

There was the slightest edge in your voice. Why couldn't you have forgotten? Why did the weather have to cooperate? But as I changed out of my nightshirt and pulled the heavy cotton onto my bare skin, I felt the first stirrings of something other than dread. You must have seen it too, because your smile, while stern, was knowing and warm. Warmer than the air outside. Cold front was right. Our breaths frosted as we emerged from the apartment and jogged off toward the park. The air chilled my face, sneaking past my neckline and wrists and waist to nip at my skin, driving the last mists of sleep from my head.

Now I see it and blink. The outside fog has indeed hit. I can barely see across the street. It is only a few blocks, running side-by-side; long enough to warm me up, long enough for me to think about what each step is bringing closer. We pass through the sleepy but waking city, stores receiving deliveries, other early runners crossing the avenues, and on the paths of the park itself.

The street border gives way to the park's path, the land opens up; but in the morning's gray fog, it appears to close in, thicker, tighter. Ten feet away, the passing trees lining the path are indistinct. They flash into sharpness as we pass, then back into dark blobs before disappearing in the gloom.

We run along toward the north field. The noises of the waking city seem to murmur more quietly, muffled by the veil of mist. We pass other runners almost startling each other during fleeting moments of resolution on the winding path. We hit the long curving pathway of the northern field and with your hand at the small of my back, we veer off the path and onto the grass, to be quickly lost in the barely lightening gray of the pre-dawn in fog.

The trees lining the path become dark, smudged shapes, then disappear altogether in the mist. We run ten, twenty more paces, then slow in a small closed-in patch of green surrounded by, apparently, nothing, though mere tens of yards in any direction, there isn't anything between us and the paths, and beyond that the streets lined with apartment buildings and business skyscrapers facing the park. We hear a truck hit the brakes, the thudding tread of a runner, an eager dog pulling his lead. We are in the middle of the living, waking city, but, at the moment, in complete privacy.

"Now, off," you say. So few curt words. You, my articulate, sensitive equal, biting off cryptic orders. But I understand, and, trembling a little, I obey. I fix my eyes on you, imagine us in a closed white room, and pull the sweatshirt off, letting it drop to the wet grass beside us. The cold air makes my skin, slightly sweaty from the run, break out in goose bumps, and my bare nipples harden quickly. You watch me, your face impassive, but your eyes spark, hungry. I can see you starting to get hard under your sweat pants.

I bend forward to untie my dew-wet sneakers and step out of them, soaking one sock as I pull off the other. Then, with the barest hesitation after meeting your eyes again, I hook my thumbs in my waistband and pull down the pants, stepping out of them toward you. I stand before you naked, in the middle of the city park, my only protection from the eyes of others the fading night and the thick fog.

"Turn. All the way around."

On a clear day, this field -- this spot -- can be seen from the windows of most buildings around the park. The city bus, only a sound on the border road right now, could easily see the field's center on such a day. A pedestrian curses at a too-close passing car probably less than 100 feet away. But none, save you, know I am here. Only you see me.

When I face you again, your eyes pass up and down my body. You look greedy, prideful, lusty, nearly half of the deadly sins rolled into one. You reach out and place your hand on my shoulder, pushing down. I kneel in the grass, naked in the public park. You push my knees wide apart with your wet, sneakered feet, and I feel myself open toward the grass below me.

You step closer, twining my hair in one hand, pulling the waistband of your sweats low enough to allow your cock to spring free. You pull me to you and I open my mouth and take you in. The air is cold around me, and I shiver, but you are hot in my mouth. Hot, incredibly hard, already leaking a drop of your arousal. I tighten my lips around you as you fill my mouth, take you deeply, running my tongue along your sensitive underside. You hiss in pleasure and I look up. You look down, at me, eyes half-lidded. The gray behind you is lighter than before; the mist is brightening as the breaking sun begins to illuminate our world of cloud.

I suck intently, enthusiastically, one hand reaching into your pants to cup and fondle your balls. Part of me wants you to finish with me like this, so I can dress and be safely concealed. But I know that is not what will happen. I know this even before you pull out of my eager mouth. You step away, erection jutting from between sweatshirt and pants.

"Down," you say.

You do not elaborate but I know what you mean. Heart racing, I bend forward, hands to the wet grass, then elbows. I turn my head to the side as I lay my head down in the cold dew. The fog continues to brighten. The glare makes the world closer, cleaner. The sun is going to burn off the mist. The sounds of the city are increasing, encroaching on the space, and I am on my elbows and knees in the middle of the park, ass and cunt raised to the air. And no one can see me except you.

But you are not there. You have stepped away into the mist. I am alone. I raise my head to look around and see nothing but a near patch of grass below the white.

"Head down." I hear your voice from nowhere. "Cunt up. Open just for me." You must not be able to see me, but you know what I am doing. I am open just for you, but anyone could walk across the grass as a shortcut, or the wind could blow...I shiver, not from cold.

"Touch yourself. Make yourself ready for me."

I reach down, sliding may palm along and past my belly, between my wide open legs. I find my slit. My fingers touch slick wetness. My own dew is flowing and I feel myself blush as I touch and tease myself in the center of the city. How long will the fog last? Can I see farther across the grass than a minute ago? I cannot help a small moan of both arousal and fear.

And then you are there. Your hands hot on my hips, the head of your cock hot on my cunt lips. My hand falls away as you wordlessly thrust yourself completely into me, our bodies slapping together in our white room of fog.

I grunt, loud enough I fear, to carry, and try to stifle my sounds as you take me hard in the thinning haze. Yes, it is thinning. Burning. Like me. I am burning now. My face is turned to the east. I find and I see the blurry white ball of the sun through what must be a canyon of city buildings. But now...I don't care. All I want to feel is you inside me, filling me, completing me here. I want everyone to know it. To see you have me. To see me being yours. I let myself moan louder and you do not hush me, fucking harder and faster. Fog lights from cars on the facing street peer through the veil. The nearest trees assume vague shapes. I turn myself up to you, wanting you deep, all the way inside me. The wet grass tickles my breasts and nipples and I am rising, burning like the fog in your sun.

You growl low and rough, slamming into me one last time. You swell inside me, bursting like the sun through the clouds. I cry out, head coming up, arching, pressing back into you. You fill me, and when I feel your hot seed brimming and overflowing our straining junction, I come too.

The world goes white and indistinct again for a perfect age of devotion and ecstasy. Only you and I exist, and you fill me as you were made to. I squeeze you, urge you, as I was made to.

And we hold there. A frozen tableau of two. The fog is lighter still, the city nearly awake. Faint shapes move at the edge of sight. Cars, runners, begin to resolve from indistinction, and yet we hold, as if still in our private space. As if daring now to be seen. And I do not dread it. Not even close.

The loud complaint of a taxi's horn somewhere behind us finally shakes us from our trance-like state. You pull your softening cock from me and step back. I rise to my knees feeling your semen ooze, then gush from me. But there is no time. We quickly throw on our soaked sweats, then take a little more time with socks and shoes. We stand. The fog is only thin strands now. I can see the cars, and the runners, and the couple with canes, and the one with the baby carriage walking along the arcing path around us. How long have they been visible? How long have those windows in the nearest towers been able to see down into the field?

You are before me and enfold me in your arms. I am yours, and I don't care who knows it.

Hand in hand, we walk from the park.

©2009 by Raziel Moore

Reader Comments


Raziel Moore, aka Monocle, has been writing erotica for a long time, and putting it up on the Web at various free sites. This year, with a new partnership, a new blog, and making the acquaintance of several wonderful writers, he is working on taking writing a little more seriously. For more information see his blog.

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