Interlude

#2003 Par Nodoma (pxn774@hotmail.com)

Permission is granted to reproduce and distribute this story in any form provided copyright and content remain unaltered.

I stare down at the floor between the chair and the sofa. My back is bare, and for once, straight. My shoulders and arms are tensed with effort, since at this moment, my body is a few inches higher than the sofa, parallel with the floor and supported only by my arms in what gymnasts call a planche.

This is one of the few exercises I do alone. Physically, it is difficult, but that is a small price to pay for the mental peace that solitude allows me. Make no mistake, I love Andy and what she does, but absence keeps the heart fond.

My shoulders and neck actually miss her presence, the missing sensation of weight almost sharp enough to be called pain. Of course, if she were to take her customary seat atop me now, I would collapse instantly. A planche is an order of magnitude more difficult than a pushup.

The sound of footsteps break news that I have badly misjudged my alone time. They abruptly stop, and I look up from the floor to meet Andy's gaze. She is wearing a dark pink sleeveless shirt with a white pair of (very) brief shorts, her black hair cascading down past them almost to the back of her knees. No, she hadn't planned on riding, but her smoldering blue eyes tell me I have a large problem on my hands.

"Do you have any idea what that does to me, Len?"

"Why do you think I do it alone?" Insolent, perhaps, but I temper it by breaking eye contact and looking back down toward the floor. Damn, those shorts might as well not exist with the length of her legs.

Footsteps again, and I am staring down at her bare feet.

"Look at me." The voice is soft, but commanding nonetheless, and when I do not respond, a finger slides behind my chin and forces my head up. I expect to see anger in those eyes, but instead find only disappointment.

"Why did I pick you, again?" It is getting difficult to hold the planche, and her finger is still holding my head up. It's also a sharp angle to stare up at her 5'10" frame, and it definitely doesn't help matters.

"Because I'm smaller than you, but strong enough to hold your weight." The last words come with effort. I can't stay like this much longer.

"Indeed. You show off that strength with something like this, and you expect me not to do anything about it?"

"Don't worry. It'll - be gone soon." It's really tough, now. If it wasn't for that finger!

A flicker of amusement crosses her eyes, and the finger is removed a split second before I give out. I swear there's a sadistic streak that she hasn't told me about.

I am resting on my knees now, but still holding on to the arms of the chair and sofa, and still looking up at her, even without the finger. At least it's much easier.

"Happy?" This is delivered dripping with sarcasm, since I know she's unfulfilled, and at the moment, I'm too weak to carry her. I'm also very slightly angry. Why did she do that?

The amusement breaks out in full force now, and I see a wide grin on her face.

"Not yet!" She walks around the sofa and grabs the stereo remote from the coffee table, then walks behind the sofa, turns with her back to it, and sits on top. After gathering her hair, she leans back and rests her head on one of the seat cushions, her body almost upside-down.

Her legs split open. This is new, but I can guess what she wants me to do. I crawl behind the sofa and stand on my knees between her legs. Leaning forward, I rest my neck on her upturned crotch, and am rewarded with the exquisite feeling of her thighs wrapping snugly around me, her legs crossed just above her knees.

I look down at her. The smile hasn't disappeared; if anything, it's gotten even bigger. I have an urge to laugh at her appearance, with her hair in disarray and almost touching the floor, but given that my neck is right in the middle of the strongest part of her body, I remain silent and only grin back at her.

She aims the remote at the stereo, and 80s music fills the room.

"Dance for me."

Since I'm disabled, dancing is not what you'd think. Actually, I just rock back and forth on my knees and move my head. Right now, however, that happens to be more than adequate. Leave it to Andy . . .

It's about midway through the first song that I feel the telltale grip of her orgasm. If she were riding, I would stop there, but this isn't taxing at all, so I keep going. I wish I could say that I kept track of her orgasms, but music very quickly enraptures me like nothing else; I don't even notice the uncrossing of her legs when she's ready to stop, and it's only the sudden silence that causes me to stop my movements. I look down at her, and she laughs out loud at what must be a very disappointed face. She reaches up and tousles my hair before lifting her legs away from my head and stretching out on the sofa, very close to falling asleep.

She's happy now.