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The following is a short piece of erotica focusing on a couple who find out how delicious delayed gratification can be. Read on…

The first time she was frustrated. By the third time she was pissed. But the fourth and eighth and twelfth times, she barely remembered and didn’t care.

The first time they were at her apartment. After a second date. This was “faster” than was normal for her, but hell, people know when they want to have sex with each other, and she wanted to with him. She thought he felt the same way about her, but then…well, let’s set the scene first.

They were on her couch, the wine on the coffee table was barely touched, and his fingers were digging into the small of her back while she explored his mouth with her tongue. It was exciting to find that he knew how to use his lips and that his tongue listened to hers. She listened to his, too, and its directions were clear and direct.

As he let his weight fall onto her, she could feel that he was aroused. He was practically about to burst through his jeans. His erection trapped in there must be downright painful, she thought, and she actually imagined it tearing through his pants; it was cartoonish and she nearly laughed, but the image of its sudden entrance into the space between them, its dramatic thrust into her mind’s eye, was also sexy as hell and she felt herself getting wet.

His other hand was up her shirt now, enjoying her skin and the lines her ribs drew to her breasts. His fingers traced the barrier that was her bra, while his first hand pulled her closer to him.

Then his goddamn cellphone rang. “Sorry,” he whispered, and he answered it.

He managed a small business–she didn’t remember the details, it was only a second date, after all–and the call had to do with work. He sat there, on her couch, one hand holding the phone, the other cruelly caressing her thigh. And he talked, that bastard, for a good five minutes, putting out a figurative fire while she considered making decaf or watering her plants. She watched the bulge in his pants deflate a little. And then completely.

He finally hung up, apologized (it was an emergency), told her he had had fun, and left the apartment.

That Saturday morning she went to his place after a simple text message invitation: “Let me make up the other night to you. I have some time this morning if you’d like have breakfast.”

He had made a breakfast fit for the cover of a Good Housekeeping, but they never touched it. They said “Hi” then were at it again. Finding their way to his bed, he kissed her right, and touched her right. Yet only through her clothes; he made no effort to unbutton a blouse or unzip a fly. This went on for five minutes, ten minutes…it felt like hours. Call her old-fashioned, she liked a man who took control of situations like these, but she decided to be a bit more forward; she would at least hint at what she wanted.

She let her fingers dance on his belly. It was flat and firm and, only naturally, her fingers found their way under the elastic waistband of his underwear. He liked it, she surmised, because he was growing inches below her hand.

He mirrored her motions, playing with her tummy and the lacy waistband of her underwear. They stayed like that, for some time, mouths tasting mouths, necks, and throats; fingers teasing pubic regions; both of them torturing each other delightfully, until…

He looked at the clock, and whispered, again, “Sorry.” He was meeting his friends for a game of basketball–he did it every Saturday–and he was going to be late.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she thought. But she just nodded, “Oh, that’s OK.” She straightened her shirt and that was that.

They met a third time–dinner, movie, and back to the couch where they began! She learned the movements and sounds of his body even better. She ran her hand up and down his lean thighs until she thought she’d cry out in frustration. He felt her up and kissed her bosom, but only the top part exposed above her completely-still-on-bra! She liked what his tongue did, his hands too, and his scent and his moans were instilled in her memory.

Then it happened again. The reason is of little import. Just know he said “Sorry” and they separated before an article of clothing could be shed. She was angry at him, and she didn’t care if she had any right to be. So much so that when he asked her out again, her initial reaction was to tell him unequivocally “No!” But thinking better of it, she called him, and she asked, point-blank, why hadn’t they had sex?

“You don’t seem to be impotent?” she queried. “Do you have a disease? Aren’t you into me?”

But the cool bastard, that sexy motherfucker, just sighed on the other end of the line. The sigh reminded her of his gentle gasps of pleasure made when she nibbled his ear. “The timing has never been right,” is all he told her. He said it without apology. Without embarrassment. And she found the answer, perplexingly, satisfying. She agreed to go out with him again. They decided to go dancing.

The club was dense with people and the not-unpleasant aroma of sweat and spilt beer. Tonight, she wore more makeup than usual and the kind of tiny black dress that turns men into drooling dogs. And damn it if he didn’t look especially good too, in an impeccably-fitting shirt and a day’s growth of stubble.

They had never danced together before, but soon she began to hope that the old adage was true when it came to him, that a person dances like they make love. His touch and the beat of the music guided their movement. Her arousal was paramount. Shoulder-to-shoulder with dozens of other couples, here there would be no exploring each other with lips. Instead they danced closer, and tighter, and when his hand pressed the small of her back, she remembered his toying with the top of her panties. When the music drowned out all other sound, she remembered the tender sucking sound he had made when kissing her chest.

Before long, her want for him was so great, it was painful. Her desire to be undressed and unceremoniously fucked burned like an insatiable itch.



The itch grew and simmered and burned, and then, somehow…passed. Or perhaps not “pass,” because it was still there. It may have instead transpired into something else. Because an itch is something that demands to be scratched, just as hunger demands to be fed. Food is the pleasure received, while the hunger is the pain that demands pleasure. But here and now, in this loud throng of people, her itch stopped being the pain that desired pleasurous scratching; her itch became the pleasure itself. She slipped into a new plane of consciousness where the after-this-itch is never considered. This itch was the End All and Be All. She lived here, now, in that yearning and enjoyed it more than she had enjoyed anything before.

He must have liked living there too, for at the end of the night, they kissed goodbye, and neither of them invited the other to come spend the night.

They began to see each other more and more often, kissing and caressing like teenagers, never undressing, only building a greater and greater itch, illustrated by their wetness and hardness.

This went on for weeks.

They did little else.

One cold morning, three months after their second date, they were in his bed, staying warm under the covers, and he did something she thought he would never do. He peeled off her t-shirt. And her bra. She mirrored his action, and he wore a shirt no more.

He removed her skirt. She, his pants. Done taking turns, now they worked together, an unconscious unit, and slid off each others’ underwear. Simultaneously, both pairs fell to the floor.

The undressing was new, and yet, it was not meant to achieve anything more than the grand itch they had become so damn good at creating. Their teasing sessions had lasted longer and longer. This chilly morning continued the trend. They began a motherfucking marathon.

Naked. They continued to explore. Where those fingertips had danced under panty lines, now lips kissed and caressed. Softly, on nipples, more lips. Fingertips, his, she barely noticed, found the wet warmth between her legs. He brushed the flesh there just like he had the rest of her body. Her fingers found his member, and she gently, barely, stroked it.

Their fingers found the want and the itch they had built upfor such a long time.

This went on.

For a long time.

Every moment was delicious.

Then he glided himself into her. Months of exploration and delicate meandering was replaced by gentle undulation. Remember that the aim of their desire had disappeared long ago. They had sought only the desire itself, and thus forgotten all about the next derivative of that longing. So, like being given sight after a lifetime of blindness, his being inside her brought them awe.

The desire spread through her core and down her extremities. He seemed to fill all the places that the desire touched. His moans that she’d come to know so well became loud and desperate and she loved his crying out to her. She herself cried out as he pumped. The neighbors heard and the bed beat the wall. It was hot under the covers and the sheets were soaked. Tears came to their eyes as their itch was satisfied. Being fucked never felt so good. Together, they came, and a long moment of bliss overtook them.

His weight on her.

The stickiness of their skin.

His lips still on hers.

Gratification and peace and all that is right.


But not for long.

For the itch… The desire… The want… The need and the nagging… The begging and the yearning…

They all seep back to them.

“Again,” she says to him. “Let’s fuck, like that, again.”

He nods, happy to oblige, knowing it will take another three months to fuck her, like that, again.

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