Page 347 of Phobia
I come, screaming, my orgasm echoing through the house like thunder.
I can’t catch my breath. I see fucking stars. My lungs are burning. My throat is dry. I blink away sweat, all the while feeling Anthony’s delicate fingers caressing me, tugging at my sore nipples. His touch is as delicate as the flutter of butterfly wings.
Still panting, I gently move his legs unclasping his ankles and spreading him before me. I’ve marked his belly and his chest with my release. I drag my fingers through it and feed it to Anthony. He licks at my fingers and suckles contently.
His eyelids flutter, then close.
My lover has surrendered to his small death.
I smile at him as his body shivers, slipping deeper into a restful sleep.
I am his safe place.
I am his home.
I am his.
***
“Mmm...smells good.”
I hadn't noticed Anthony shimming closer to my side, peering into the large pot I'm stirring. Chunks of vegetables, thick, homemade noodles and fatty lumps of meat float on the surface.
He looks up at me so sweetly with those lovely grey eyes. His thick lashes appear almost white in the bright afternoon light streaming through the glass walls. I swear to God everything slows down when he looks at me like that.
I can’t break away.
Anthony has me all strung up.
I put down the ladle and cup his face in my hands, kissing him gently. “It's goose soup.”
“Yeah?” Anthony murmurs kissing me back standing on his tippytoes.
I can't stop kissing him. “It’s”...kiss... “fattier”...kiss... “good”....kiss...for...kiss... “you...” I give up. I just wanna kiss my angel. I'll tell him about the benefits of this soup some other time.
I lean into his space and scoop him up. Anthony wraps his legs around my waist.
For all my gentle encouragement he starts wearing the clothes I've bought him, in moments like this, I'm more than glad he still prefers his robes. I've ordered him a whole new stash – different fabrics and colors. I can't wait to see him try them all on.
“The soup.” Anthony giggles still kissing me. His soft lashes flutter over my cheek like feathers.
“It’s done.” I turn off the burner while holding Anthony with one hand.
He's light as a plume in my arms. He still eats like a little bird – pecking at this and that, like he's sampling things, but never really consuming more than a quarter of the already small portions I prepare for him.
I gently try to encourage him to eat more, but he responds by cupping his non-existent belly, whining that he's about to burst.
“I'm full, Dee, I promise. Please don't make me eat more. My tummy hurts.”
At first, I expected it – this reluctance to accept my care.
Being suspicious about food is a very real fear he could still be dealing with.
The naturally gradual recovery of his body.
The lack of appetite caused by all the stress he must be experiencing adjusting to this new life with me.
To our life.
