His Fire Within Her

He burned for her.

He sat in his chair at the table by the window and he burned.

An aching heat pulsed out from between his legs, spreading up his body and across his face. His skin flushed red and he felt something hard that also pulsed between his legs.

He wanted her, and he watched her. Watched her from his chair at the table by the window, wringing his hands. He wouldn't touch himself. He would not. That risked the prod, and a day away from the window. No. Actually, the last time they threatened a week if he did it again.

So he wouldn't do it again. He wouldn't touch himself. He would not.

He would just watch her. And want her.

And then, one day, she waved at him. Turned and looked into his eyes from where she stood on the lawn, and waved at him. He stopped wringing his hands long enough to wave back.

She licked her lips. He was sure of it. She was far away, but he knew what he saw. And he burned for her anew. Burned with an aching throbbing longing that would never abate and always go unfulfilled. Because he wouldn't touch himself. He would not.

But that day, in his chair at the table by the window, he had a thought. Perhaps... his whole body trembled at the thought... perhaps she wanted him too. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

They came to take him back to his room.

She was still looking at him when they came. He stood, but resisted the urge to wave. He didn't want them to see. What he had with her now was sacred, and he'd be damned if he was going to share it with them. He let them lead him away, but he smiled to her, when they weren't looking, just before he turned to go. He didn't see her smile back, but he knew she did.

Later, he lay on his bed in his room and didn't touch himself. He wanted to, but he didn't. Well, technically, he did touch himself. He ran his hands slowly and softly over his face, imagining her hands as he ran his fingers through his hair. He moved his hands over his chest, sliding smoothly over his tight cotton shirt, down across his stomach to the waistband of his jeans. They were loose, and he let the tips of his fingers slide under...

NO!

He pulled his hand out of his jeans, and put both hands as far from the rest of him as possible.

Was he stupid? Did he want the prod? He sat up, clenching his fists, pressing them to the sides of his head. He felt the heat burning in him, the fire building so that he was going to explode. He thought about pressing the button, so they would come and put him to sleep. But he didn't. He didn't want to sleep. He would only dream of her, and they frowned upon such dreams. He wouldn't get the prod for it, but he'd lose a few days in the chair at the table by the window. He wasn't sure which was worse.

So he did nothing. He didn't touch himself, and he didn't call them to put him to sleep. He just did nothing.

And then she was there. In his room. Looking at him like she did from the lawn.

"I felt you," she said. "Felt you watching me."

She crossed his room, gliding over the tiles to stand before him. She leaned in close, and a rough spasm shuddered through his body. "I saw you burning," she whispered in his ear, and he arched his neck, eyes closed and gasping. She moved in even closer, her lips brushing his ear and her breath on his cheek. "I want your fire inside me."

And then she was on top of him, tearing at his clothes, kissing him deeply, biting his neck. He was stunned for a moment, but quickly responded in kind. He held her to him, returning her kisses with such fervor he bruised her mouth. He pulled back, concerned, but she laughed and kissed him harder.

Their clothes made a pile on the floor as they hurled themselves at one another. He lifted her onto him, pushing her back up against the wall as she wrapped her legs around him. She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, kissing and biting his neck and throwing him off balance so he stumbled back to the bed. He fell backward onto the mattress, and she straddled him, pinning his shoulders to the bed as she pulled him inside her. He thrust upward, lifting her off the bed. She gasped at the exquisite pleasure and gripped him tightly. She began to ride him then, grinding up and down until their thrusting grew frantic, slamming against one another until they screamed their pleasure to the four walls together. She collapsed across his chest, both of them panting and gasping for breath. For a while, they just lay there, lost in the sound of their own labored breathing. She gave him one last squeeze before climbing off him and gathering up her clothes. She dressed quickly, and motioned for him to do the same.

"They'll be coming," she said. "You should be dressed before they get here."

And then she was gone. He stood, half-dressed, his shirt in hand, and watched her go. She'd promised to return, and told him she'd wave to him again from the lawn the next time she'd be able to get away.

He heard boots in the hall and quickly pulled on his shirt. When they asked if he'd been touching himself, he'd try not to smile when he told them no.