by Craig J. Sorensen
(02/06/08)
The first peal wakes me. It always does when I oversleep. So often, Amanda has to come upstairs and pry me awake, but I don't remember the alarm clock this morning. I don't remember Amanda's voice: "Get up. Get up!"
No matter what, the peal of a church bell echoing through the valley gets me up every time, in more ways than one. But just as grand are the long numb pauses. Sweet anticipation between the predictable peals.
I can hear the soft sounds of reverent conversation and feet over softly popping gravel from the road below. Some stragglers are just getting off to church. The second peal of the bell sings out. I so love church bells. God-fearing people make their way to hear a sermon on this beautiful spring morning. I should be too. Why isn't Amanda leaning on the door frame in her Sunday best, tapping her foot waiting for me to rush into my clothes?
A crystal peal slices the silence a third time. Did she go without me? There's a first time for everything. My groin is heavy, so I know, like usual I'm good and hard. Is that blasphemous, getting hard at the sound of a church bell? To my surprise, I hear Amanda's soft breathing behind me mingle with the chiming echo. I turn on my back to see her. Her nipples poke the thick sheet like it was silk. Her shoulders are bared like some broad in a sexy movie.
Amanda? Is that you?
The bell peals a fourth time. Almost half way there.
The sheet is gathered to Amanda's body like the mummy's wrap. Goddamned if -- excuse my language -- I can't believe she's wearing that perfume I love. Smells fresher than the spring air that pushes the lace curtains on rippling waves. A little curl of a smile crosses her lips. I see her dark blue Sunday dress draped on the footboard, and her nightgown draped over it. She's never slept without her nightgown. I can't believe she's still here -- still sleeping -- like that.
The fifth peal, and her hand, supported on long, glossy bright red nails, walks like a crab across the sheet, climbs my hip and comes to rest. I open my mouth to say something, anything. Not a word. That curl of her smile grows, and her fingers squeeze the sheet tight to my stiffness.
The sixth peal. By God, she's wearing bright red lipstick! On a Sunday! Her pearly teeth shine and I smell Pepsodent. Her fingers slide along my shaft, down, and curl around my balls like a birdcage. She gives a firm squeeze, just enough. Now my cock feels like a groaning balloon, ready to explode in a hail of fine purple ribbons.
Amanda has always said it isn't right to do it by the light of day. Makes me nurse my need through the whole of Sunday until the night comes. You know how many times a church bells ring on a Sunday? I do.
Seventh peal is so, so sweet. Now she peels. Peels the sheet from her body. Wholly nude! That body I've admired at length on moon bright nights, its warm color rendered like a beautiful ghost. Now it's shining bronze in cutting spring daylight. It's all I can do not to just throw the top sheet off the bed like the trash and push inside her warm sweetness. I've never been good at this -- anticipation -- but this moment is so rare.
Eighth peal rings out, and the reverent are filing into the church, ready to close their eyes and bow their heads. Amanda's eyes open. Blue like the fresh spring sky. The bright blue of that new 1955 Taos Turquoise Lincoln convertible in the showroom at Dawson Motors.
Ninth and final peal rings out, and Amanda sprawls her body over mine. Her wetness soaks right through the sheet. She whispers in my ear. "Honey, we should be in church now." She squeezes her arm under the sheet, between our bodies and begins to stroke my stiffness.
"Baby, we'll never get there at this rate."
"Some Sundays are for sermons. Some are for reverence. Today, I'm reverent." She winks as the sheet seems to vanish. Her soft warmth draws around my tip. The rich deep red of her nipples -- like targets -- draw my gaze. I drift down her supple stomach to that perfect comma of her navel. I take her waist in my smooth callused hands. The bright gold arrow between her legs descends slowly. "Surprised?" Her breath is a whisper. She presses tightly to the base of my hardness.
I smile and lock my eyes in hers. I have to strain the words out as she eases up and down slowly, steadily. Her moisture begins to collect in my pubic hair. "Guess we -- mmm -- can catch -- midday sermon."
"I think we'll be busy."
Midday. Twelve peals.
