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"My God, what a long day!" I heard Alistair announce, opening the door behind me. It was a December evening in Seattle, and he had just returned from a long day of meetings with donors. I was bundled up reading, with the fireplace roaring, attempting to keep out the cold.
"I was getting worried, you know," I said, "But you're alright? The snow wasn't too bad?"
"Yes, yes, darling," he leaned down and kissed me. I still couldn't help smiling when he called me that. How did I ever get so lucky? "I will say it picked up as I was leaving, but I couldn't wait another minute to see you."
This had me a bit flushed, and I knew Alistair could tell — he had become shockingly good at reading my emotions. I would still never admit it if prompted, but I must admit, it was nice to feel... known.
He took a seat on the couch beside me, and I invited him to join me under my blanket. He put his arm around me, I held him close to my chest - he was cold, however much he had been exposed to the elements. I wrapped myself around him to share my warmth.
I lifted my face up to kiss him again. It didn't take long to devolve into something more, as his hands, still cold, reached behind me and under my sweater.
"I've been waiting for this all day," he mumbled in my ear. He knew exactly how to press my buttons.
"Alistair— hold on— I don't want us to be, uh, in a compromising position, if somebody comes in," I said to him.
"Oh, darling," he whispered, "don't tell me you don't want me to continue?"
"I..." I mumbled.
His hand came up my chest. "So warm," he said.
"You know I can't lie to you."
"Then don't. Tell me how much you want me, Frasier, and I will make it happen."
I sighed. "I can't resist you, my dear," I leaned in and got quiet, my voice shaking. "I want you on top of me. I've been dreaming about it for hours."
He smiled at me, a devilish look on his face. "So have I."
He kissed me again, and pushed me down into the couch. He undid my pants, slowly, savoring every second. He hooked his thumbs through my belt loops, grabbed my thighs, and proceeded to slip my clothes off of me.
"You are so beautiful, Frasier, I have to tell you. I could do nothing but stare at your body for hours."
"You well know there will be plenty of time for that later," I said.
"Not enough. There's not enough time in the world."
"Alas, I suppose we'll have to fill our days with some other form of pleasure."
Alistair laughed, quietly. "Give me one moment, my darling, you know I don't want to waste another second before I ravish you." He took off to get his supplies.
"So long as you let me undress you," I shouted back.
The first time I saw his little kit, I had wondered, who needs all of that for sex? However, when I realized the difference between my experience after being prepared, and my previous, private explorations, I realized: ah, this is what sex is supposed to be. There was nothing to be afraid of, only poor information. I had wanted to surrender my sex life into Alistair's capable hands immediately.
Here he was again, a bottle of lube in hand. He was glorious, as he always was. Something about him shined in every situation.
"Alistair... I can't tell you how you make me feel," I said.
He smiled at me, pure, sweet, loving, glorious. "I know, Frasier." He kissed me briefly. "Hm, someone said he wanted to undress me, right?"
"Yes, I believe someone did," I said. I reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, not with the great care I would typically show his clothing - I wanted it off of him, first and foremost. Finally, he shed the thing; seeing his body was like observing a Greek statue, an indescribable awe came over me every time.
When he was fully nude, I held his erection in my hand. I loved the feeling of the heat, the weight, his flesh in my hand. I loved holding it, and I loved making him climax like that. I had to stroke him a few times — I just couldn't help myself — and he interjected:
"Oh, Frasier," he groaned, "you can't do this to me, you know you have an incredible power with those hands of yours." His fingers curved up the back of my neck, but he made no motiond to stop me.
"I do, don't I?" I said. The feeling of him swelling in my hand, eliciting gasps for breath with nothing but my touch... yet, as much as I would have loved to continue, and despite the heat we were generating, being in this apartment in the nude required more. I took my hand away, and immediately he read my mind.
"Not enough for you, hm?" he growled, pushing me back down beneath him.
Feeling his skin on my skin flooded me with warmth, there was nothing like it in the natural world. He slid a finger into me, slowly, but with a sure pressure - a physical manifestation of the kind of sureness that made me fall in love with him.
"You're doing so well, Frasier, getting ready for me," he murmured, breath hot on my ear.
I knew I was getting flushed again; Alistair knew how to get me where he wanted me. He stretched me well, with three of his nimble fingers, and then adjusted our positions. As he poised himself to enter me, I reveled in being manhandled by him. He could put me anywhere he wanted, in any position, and I would be in no place to object.
He asked, "Are you ready, Frasier?"
I smiled at him. "Yes, Alistair."
He laid on top of me, with his face buried in my neck and collarbone, and fell into a slow rhythm.
When he was on top of me like this, all I could think about was the warmth he gave off. I marveled at the way my brain reacted; in all the times I had gone over how people experience intimacy — the oxytocin release, the lowered function of regulatory systems, how it mirrors one's reaction to pain — it was an abstraction. I knew, rationally, that that must have been happening to me, but it was never visceral understanding when I read passages in medical journals. With Alistair, however, I felt it all happening in real time. When he touched me, it was the relaxation of oxytocin, and the reflexive reaction running through my spinal cord that made me lean into his hands, into his hips. I could tell my emotional regulation was turning itself off as every sensation heightened. He was in my brain every time he was on my body.
"Alistair..." I sighed, involuntarily.
"Yes, Frasier?" He sighed. He didn't slow down. It took all the effort I could muster to gather a response.
"I just... ah, well, I... I love you," I managed to get out. It felt unceremonious, too common of a phrase between us to capture how I felt.
"Oh, Frasier," Alistair spoke. "You're the most wonderful man I've ever loved."
Alistair's skill with words never failed to amaze me. Sure, I was no stranger to public speaking, even in tense situations; I had no choice, in my career. But Alistair, my beloved Alistair, was never at a loss for words, even when one would figure his brain ought to be caught up in something else.
"My love, my angel," he whispered. This was the closest to discomposure I could hear out of Alistair: when his perfect words degraded into muttering petnames. "I've been imagining this all day. Exactly like this— with the snow dusting the streets out your window— with you underneath me, gasping and wincing— with your hands all over me—"
His breath hitched between clauses, and his motion and speech picked up speed. I became self-aware of my sounds and my hands, but it didn't bother me — if anything, I played it up for him, because I knew how much he loved hearing me. My gasps turned into groans, my winces into whining and shaking, and my hands wandered up and down his back, grasping desperately at his skin.
"You're so wonderful, Frasier, you have no idea what your voice does to me," he said. "Every noise you make is just perfect. Every sound. I can't listen to your show in public, did you know that? Your smooth baritone voice, with that sexy, self-posessed, unshakeable tone... My God, it just gets me too excited."
The idea of him listening to me in public had crossed my mind, but never like that. It conjured up an image of Alistair, my sweet, high-class, always-poised Alistair, needing to excuse himself to a private room and think of me. Listening to me in his office, feeling his slacks get tight at nothing but my speech, and locking the door. That image, combined with his sure thrusts, had me howling for real.
"My darling Frasier," he muttered. He kissed me, all around my neck and chest, and held my waist to keep me steady beneath him. His lips on my body was an addicting sensation. "My dear, sweet, perfect Frasier..."
"Oh, God, Alistair," I whined. My head was swimming with lust, there were no thoughts except for Alistair inside of me, Alistair's lips, Alistair's hands, Alistair's warmth...
"Are you getting close, Frasier?" he muttered in my ear.
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, God, yes."
"Mm, I can feel you getting tighter. You're so good, Frasier, so good for me..." Alistair's lips were on my skin in between his words.
I gasped for breath. My muscles quaked at the stimulation. "Alistair—" I moaned, my voice cracking, before devolving into nonsense.
"So tight, Frasier... God, you're wonderful..." His voice guided me through my high, as my brain flooded with dopamine. All I could feel was my muscles tensing and relaxing around Alistair, the pressure spreading across my thighs, my glutes, my core, to take over my whole body. Alistair held me close through the waves of pleasure.
When I came down, Alistair was still driving me deeper into the cushions of my couch. The suede was smooth against my skin, and his sweating body was keeping us both warm. He continued muttering praises in my ear as he fell out of his rhythm and grabbed me, keeping himself close, as if to say, yes, Frasier, it was your body that drove me to this, your irresistible sexuality. I felt him release inside of me, (another hit of oxytocin and vasopressin,) and when he collapsed on top of me, I finally allowed my thoughts to drift... to cleanup.
Another effect of sex on the brain — one's decision-making is impaired. Why did I let us have sex on my suede couch? My perfect replica, my symbol of coziness in a high-class room? I hadn't the first idea of how I would get the stains out, and there would definitely be stains, when Alistair moved me to orgasm it was never convenient to clean, there had been times it became a wall-scrubbing affair—
Alistair, laying his head on my chest, must have felt my heartbeat quicken as I let my racing thoughts get the better of me, because he turned his face to mine and gently interrupted.
"Is there something wrong, my dear?" He asked.
Hearing his voice, seeing his face, my worries seemed ridiculous. I felt myself relax at the mere knowledge that he cared. Half-mocking myself, I laughed, "Alistair, what have we done to my couch?"
"You don't think Coco Chanel did the same to hers?" He smiled, already prepared to put my fears at ease. "We can call a cleaner in the morning. The boy I have has gotten worse out of finer upholstery."
I chuckled at that; I should have known this would be familiar territory for Alistair. Of course, another thought did cross my mind, briefly: "You have a boy for that?"
Alistair didn't even let me voice a concern before squashing it. "Oh, Frasier, you don't have to worry about him, he's far too young for me. As I get older, I find I need a man with more... experience." A sly smile spread across his face.
"Alistair, I love you," I said again, this time with conviction.
"I love you too, my Frasier," he replied.
"Should we get out of here before we get interrupted?" I gestured at the door directly behind us.
"I was hoping we could retreat to your bedroom for round two," Alistair said, putting his hands on my waist again. "Perhaps get away from the finer furnishings."
I kissed him again. "I'd like that very much."