Thanks for the Memories

You wake from a perfectly sound sleep to the sound of a click somewhere in the small motel room. It was a soft noise—just enough to rouse you from sleep; not loud enough to truly allow your honed hearing to pin point the direction it cam from. Careful to stay still and quiet, on the off chance that someone has managed to break into your room, your eyes scan the dark depths of the room for any out of place shadows. There aren’t any.

The sigh of relief escapes your lips, softly, before you can even think about it. Your heart rate begins to drop down to normal not that the excitement of possible danger has passed. You drop your head back down to the motel’s idea of a fluffy soft pillow—a piece of fabric covered foam that could pass for a thin slab of pavement. Taking a relaxed breath you try to drop back into the rest filled sleep you were torn away from.

You close your eyes against the dark room, forcing calming thoughts into your now revved brain. You open them a moment later as another soft click fills the air, followed by the first few chords of a Led Zepplin song—you aren’t sure which one. You open your mouth to curse him for waking you, as you fling the covers from your mostly naked body. You close your mouth without uttering a word as you realize that you can’t move.

Each wrist is secured to separate sides of the headboard—legs tied in the same manner. You wonder how he managed not to wake you. You could not have been that soundly a sleep if the soft clicking sounds he made had woken you.

Your wondering how he managed to bind you to the queen sized bed without waking you leave your mind before they can properly take root as he comes into your filed of view. A tight black tee shirt hugged every curve of muscle on his upper body, leading down to the loose, yet snug, fit jeans he wore. You lose your ability to think as he looks at you as though he doesn’t see you; and the question: “who are you and what have you done…?” dies before the first syllable can even get passed your lips.

Still staring, eyes locked heavily on yours, not seeming to see you, his body begins to slowly move with the slow bluesy rhythm of the song. You swallow the lump in your throat hard as you watch his hips alternate between languid side to side pulses and slow circle. In deliberate motions his fingers tangle and untangle in the bottom hem of the fitted shirt—skin occasionally visible.

His eyes slide closed as he trails the tips of his fingers up the front of the shirt’s fabric. As methodically as he’d played with the hem of the shirt, he runs the hand through his hair and then down over his face—ending in a gentle stroke of finger tips along his jaw. You groan lightly at the sense memory of your finger tips gently running along the silken skin under a light layer of stubble. Another groan, low and deep in your throat, escapes you as the fingers tenderly caressing his jaw slip closer to his lips.

You tense slightly and pull at the bonds you’d nearly forgotten about, as the pad of his tumb touches the corner of his lush lips. For a brief moment you wonder why you’ve never wanted him to touch himself like this…but it leaves your mind quicker than lightening when he pulls the digit into his mouth. You watch your arousal growing in earnest when his other hand lets go the tee-shirt hem and begins to travel in slow circular patterns down the top of his jeans to the growing erection there.

He moans around the thumb in his mouth as his hand presses in hard to stroke the visible bulge in the front of his jeans. You’re slightly amazed and awed at how his hips continue to roll and sway to the music.

The thumb pulls from his mouth with a wet slurp, leaving a thin line of saliva down his chin as the hand moved slow, hard and flat down his shirt clad chest. His hand moved in smooth circles over a fabric covered nipple, fingers pinching lightly. You both gasp in near whimpers as his hand continued its way down—his other hand still moving against his hard cock, hips moving in near obscene rhythm with the Zepplin song. You aren’t sure if it’s the same song or not and with the way his body is keeping sway to it you don’t particularly care.

He gasps and almost whimpers when he slides his hand away from the erection he’d been fondling through the denim of his jeans to join his other hand at the hem of the shirt. Once again his fingers twined into the fabric, tugging and needing it; again exposing bits of flesh you want to touch.

You pull at the bonds again, unable to look away from the erotic scene he’s playing out. You grunt a little in frustration at not being able to hold those perfect hips and melt his body to your; or to be able to run your hands along the smooth, toned chest. Even more irritating is how badly you want to grab your fully erect penis to work the engorgement from it.

His eyes are open again and staring at, through and around you. And how frustrating it is that he’s doing that—it goes straight to your cock; but it’s also the sexiest thing he’s ever done.

Carefully, as though the fabric of the tee were really tracing paper, he begins to inch it up his body, exposing the tones and tanned flesh beneath. You hold your breath unconsciously. In moment long seconds the shirt is over his head and tossed into the abyss of the room beyond the two of you. He’s perfect, and you let him know it every time you fuck him.

Once again he’s teasing his nipples, tongue rolling over those so perfect lips before his teeth graze over the bottom lip. You hiss in want for that lip to be pinched carefully between your teeth. Your eyes travel lower, following the trail of his other hand as it once again is palming his erection. He smiles—slow and seductive.

You want to beg for him to either let you go or to fuck you, but you’re too intent on watching hid fingers play with the button at the top of his jeans. It’s undone with a dull opo—almost not heard above the music—and his hand dips inside. His smile widens and his thumb is back at his lips again. You watch in helpless fascination as his hand moves in slow up and down strokes. He moans at the contact; eyes locking with yours for the briefest of moments before he turns away from you.

You lick your lips in anticipation of his soft lips pressed firm to your and his cock penetrating you—right now you don’t care if he intends to fuck you or make you suck him, just so long as there is sex involved when he’s done teasing you because you have never been more turned on and in need. His hips roll again, shaking his perfect ass at you and he lets out this tiny noise you’re pretty sure you’ve never heard him make before—it goes straight to your southern brain, making it swell and leak more than you ever thought possible.

You growl and drop your head back to the rock of a pillow beneath your head, cutting off your view of the painfully wonderful show he’s putting on for you. You know that he’s smiling again—you can feel it sure as see it. You hear the zipper go on his jeans and the contented sigh pass those wondrous lips and you know his pants are gone—following the shirt into oblivion.

A click, softer than the one that woke you, catches your ear. You move against the manacles keeping you in place to get him back into view. His hips have stopped keeping time to the song still filling the room with sound. You stare, feeling lust filled and helpless, as his hips thrust smoothly into his slicked hand—fingers alternating between gripping and being a slicked tunnel.

His eyes are half open and he’s staring back. For the hundredth, maybe even thousandth time you plead with your suddenly too dry mouth and throat to beg for him to just fuck you, and for the same amount of tries there is an equal amount of failures. He smiles, clearly aware of your struggles and desires. And as your swollen member twitches in anticipation of his wonderful lips encircling it, you begin to wonder what all this wondrous torture is for.

He moans, closes his eyes, tips his head back and bucks his hips hard forward into his hand once, twice and you’re almost sure you can break whatever it is he’s bound you to the bed with. You’ve got to touch his soft skin, feel him pulse and writhe in your hands, like he has so many times before. You pull hard at the restraints on your wrists—it doesn’t budge an inch. A whimper that is bordering on a growl escapes you as you pull on your bonds, eyes glued to the hips rocking back and forth in powerful thrusts.

His eyes peel open to look at you. A smirk pulls at his lips and his body stops moving. Under normal circumstances you like the smirks that grace his almost edible lips, but at this moment it looks down right dangerous.

He moves closer to you, and for the briefest of moments you think he’s going to FINALLY touch you. He stops just beside the bed. You tell him that what he’s doing to you is bordering on cruel and unusual punishment. He lets out a laugh and reaches for something on the table doubling as a night stand. His laugh, like his smirk, sounds dangerous. He steps away from you—whatever it was he picked up is obscured.
Pulling the motel’s chair closer to the bed he places a foot in the center. After carefully positioning himself into a perfectly fuckable pose, he reveals to object he’d been obscuring.

He laughs at how wide your eyes get a the site of the vibrator being held firm in his hand—that you note is nowhere near touching you. You are vaguely aware of a gasp and the questions “when’d you buy that?” and “what’re you planning on doing with it?” leaving your lips as your eyes stare at the now lightly humming toy.

He laughs again, murmuring “wouldn’t you like to know” with a soft “you’ll see” before moving the vibrator out of your line of site.

You aren’t certain if the gasp that fills the air came from you or him, but you are certain the vibrator wasn’t meant to be used on you…at least not yet.

You watch as he carefully drags the vibrator as if to remove it from his body, only to gasp along with him as he slides it back home. You open your mouth to once again beg and plead to be released…because, how you’d like to be the one in control of the quivering hunk of silicone with a large rotating bullet at its tip…but close it tight as the once again pulls the built for pleasure toy down and pushes it back up. His legs tremor slightly as a loud keen escapes his lips—lips you want nothing more than to devour. You pull against your restraints again.

You want to touch every inch of his naked flesh, consume his cotton candy colored lips and assume control over the vibrator he’s using to slowly fuck himself with. You grunt in frustration as your restraints continue to hold firm, and his free hand begins to glide smoothly over his slicked erection.

For the first time since his “assault” began you can’t hear the Led Zepplin song being played. All your ears can hear are the pleasured gasps, moans and dirty words you’ve never heard him use. And damn does your own leaking erection want some attention from his hand, mouth—hell with the perfect view of him giving himself the best masturbation job you’ve seen in years, your member would readily let a ghost jerk you to climax.

You grunt again as you pull again at the padded cuffs holding you to the bed.

He smiles at your frustration. Seconds later his head tips back and his body isn’t sure whether to follow the vibrator’s movements or his fist. In a wildly hot display his entire body shook and he calls out your name as cum covers his hand. He looks back at you, eyes glazed over, and smiles wildly. He pulls the vibrator from himself and very nearly doesn’t make it to the bathroom.

You open your mouth to call out “nice floor show! What’d ya do for an encore” when he comes back from the bathroom—minus the vibrator. The smell of sex clings to him and the air of the room, making you want him to touch you all the more. He looks both sexed out and completely fuckable, and you hope that he’s coming to finish you off. You close your mouth as he nears the bed wearing a look somewhere between sated bliss and mischievous devil. You aren’t sure how much longer you can live with that expression on his angelic face and his lack of hands on you.

With sleepy movements he clambers onto the bed and straddles your chest. He smiles down at you.

“That was for that time in the car,” he says before roughly capturing your mouth in a kiss. He breaks the kiss abruptly and undoes the bonds holding your wrists. “Try to get your revenge while I’m sleeping and I’ll kill you,” he grumbles.

You laugh as you say, “don’t worry, you’re safe. Revenge is best served cold.”

“Mmmmmm…..it is,” he says dreamily and you can hear the smile in his voice.

With a smile parting your own lips you stagger into the bathroom to plot your revenge and take care of the almost painful problem he left you with.

FIN