Lemon-Decorated Boxers

Prompt by the Gent: A sensual, erotic, and hot scene between two lovers in the setting of your choice. Please be as descriptive as you like and make this one a bit more interesting... one of the lovers must have a disability -- either he/she is blind or deaf.

As with all of my Challenges, let's try to keep from using the 'usual' words to describe body parts or the 'action'...

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Lemon Decorated Boxers

For many weeks, I’ve been watching him. He always has his servant place his chair forward toward the ocean, as if the sight of the waves is pleasing to him. I suppose the sound is clearer and the smell sweeter that way, but the sight can’t make any difference -- not really -- for Laurence Van Host III is blind.

I, Mariah Trefore, am his neighbor. I’m a professional skier, or at least I used to be. A fall at Big Bear two weeks ago ended my career. Big Bear, did you hear me? How easy for the great to be humbled. It just takes one amateur’s mountain and an ad campaign that sours a lifetime and leaves one leg with a pulled tendon and the other with a smashed kneecap. Humble City – that’s me now.

I spend my days recuperating, sitting out in the sun on the porch of my expensive villa. The ocean calls to me. The crashing waves, the scent of sand and fish and freedom. Day after day I sip my tomato juice, and I stare out into the depths.

Then one day I grow bored. I suppose it is due to the squawking of the sea gulls as they fight over the scraps of dead fish, but that’s when my eyes leave the beach scenes, and I encounter the spectacle of Laurence Van Host III. I have not looked away since.

Tall and thin, but nicely muscled, the sight of him makes me wet my lips. I like the way he wears his hair. There’s a fad going on, and every male is shaving his head to look like he’s just out of boot camp. But Laurence, as I’ve taken to calling him, has let his hair grow long enough to touch the tip of his collar – or at least it would if he ever wore a shirt. He wears his hair slightly disheveled, too. I find Laurence amazingly attractive.

The man sunbathes in his boxer shorts. They are yellow with lemons on them, and when he moves, certain parts of him are often revealed. Most inappropriate, of course, but the beach next to his house is private, and I suppose that no one would ever report him for indecency, since, I think, the blind probably have free passes for such things.

My maid knows I am interested in hearing about him. With the eagerness of the young, she pours out her vast sea of knowledge. It is more than sufficient. I don’t want to hear all the gossip, but I can’t stop listening.

“His family has always owned that house,” Bonnie tells me as she freshens my glass of tomato juice.

I haven’t touched it all morning. I pick up the crystal glass and take a sip. It’s still lukewarm even with the ice cube swimming around. I place it down and turn back to watch the sea.

“His family is very rich, of course,” Bonnie adds as she takes down my order -- which is always the same: a boiled egg and a slice of dry wheat toast. It amazes me that she can’t seem to remember.

She glances at Laurence again and sighs. “Such a shame about him going blind. My mother says he used to be a real, honest to God, if you can believe it, honorable lawyer.”

“Thank you, Bonnie,” I tell the girl, waving her away.

As she leaves, I resume my watching and ponder how Laurence, like me, is sitting in front of his beach house wallowing in self-pity. I understand that perfectly, which is why I decide to meet him.

I haven’t grown accustomed to my crutches yet. The doctor says I must make the effort because I have several surgeries to undergo before, if ever, I can finally toss the crutches out. Thus, I do a rather awkward balancing act and carefully -- very carefully -- make my way down the veranda’s stairs.

Laurence’s house is the next one over, a space of no more than several yards. I hobble my way down the path, eager to see his usual lemon boxers up close.

Ten steps later, I am panting from the exertion. “Mr. Van Host,” I call out, not knowing what else to do, for I haven’t been invited to visit, and according to Bonnie, no one ever has.

“No one’s home,” he answers.

I ignore his rudeness and set foot on the lowest step of his porch.

“Go away. This is private property,” he tells me, laying his book down over his lemony attire.

I smile, not put off in the least, and I climb the next step. “Listen, I’m your neighbor, and I’ve just journeyed all the way from my porch to yours -- which isn’t far, of course, but for me was a great obstacle, and frankly, if I don’t sit down, I’m going to fall in another moment. So there.”

Having completed the last step up, I hop over to the closest chair and plop down, heavy breathing like an athlete, one who’s just finished a race.

Laurence has turned his head in my direction, but he says nothing. He watches me, or at least pretends to be doing so.

“Joe,” he yells.

I think I’m about to be ejected onto my backside, but when the servant comes out, Laurence orders him to bring two glasses of iced tea.

I swear the servant’s mouth drops halfway to the ground, but he nods his head to me, and then darts back inside.

“I don’t believe I heard your name, neighbor,” Laurence says, tilting his face slightly as if that helps him locate my position.

Up close, the man is even more delectable than at a distance. I wonder how long Joe will stick around doing various chores. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to anyone who made my heart thump so loudly.

“Mariah Trefore,” I say. “You’ve probably heard of me, if you watch the Skier’s Circuit. I was just featured last month on Ski Sunday.”

Laurence has a devastating smile. It takes my heart and breaks it in two. I sigh.

“No, can’t say that I’ve done much watching lately,” he says lightly.

I gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

He holds up his hand, stopping me. “Don’t, Mariah. Don’t say another word. I don’t want to hear pity. Forget I’m blind. Just talk to me. Tell me about . . .well, you can start with – what happened to you? Did you fall?”

“I cracked my kneecap in a skiing accident. No, that’s not exactly what the doctor says. I obliterated it, massacred it, destroyed it. No more skiing. No more running. I’m a cripple, and I might never ski again.”

I don’t mean to do it, but I break down, sobbing as if I were alone in my room. And I can’t stop. The tears keep falling. I can’t even get my breath…”

“Is there a problem?” Joe asks, coming outside with our tea.

“No,” Laurence tells him. “We’re just getting to know each other. It’s going quite well, wouldn’t you say?” he says snidely and orders Joe to get me a box of tissues.

I take several deep breaths. Then I wait for Joe to hand me the box. Next, I finish off my horrible attempt at befriending the guy and gather up my crutches. “Time to go,” I say. “I’m sorry I . . .”

“Sit down,” Laurence barks, taking me by surprise.

I drop a crutch; then stagger. My other leg isn’t strong either. I pulled the tendon in it. Face it. I’m an utter wreck, and I know it. I slam myself back into the chair and sniffle a bit more.

“Good. That’s better. How old are you, Mariah?”

It’s none of his business. I start to tell him that, but I’m all clogged up. I blow my nose, and then, darn it, I blurt out my age like I’m on truth serum. “Twenty-four.”

“Tell me what you look like,” he orders. “Help me to see you.”

“Just average, “ I tell him. “Nothing to dance about, anyway.”

I shoot a glance at the door, hoping Joe will come back, but he’s nowhere in sight. I stretch out my leg and attempt to connect with my fallen crutch. I almost have it when I slip from the chair and land on my bottom. “Ow!” I cry out, and I’m embarrassed to say, I start to cry again because the fall has jerked my kneecap, bringing back another assault of God-awful pain.

“Joe!” Laurence calls out. “Joe!”

The servant comes running, sees me on the ground, and hurries over. “How can I help, miss?”

“She’s fallen, hasn’t she?” Laurence says, standing up as if that will help the situation. “Pick her up.”

“Oh, I’d rather not, sir,” Joe states. “I might injure something.”

“Joe, you’re a cursed idiot,” Laurence tells him, and then he strides over to me as if he had full vision.

“I’m going to lift you back up in the chair. Is that okay?” Laurence asks, stopping about a foot from where I’m sitting.

“Please,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I’m so much trouble. That was stupid, utterly stupid.”

He bends over me, moving slowly, feeling for my body. I place my hands on his forearms. Then he lifts. I try not to groan as my knee gets joggled.

“I think you need to lie down for awhile,” Laurence says, grinning down at me, as if he can see my face.

I nod my head, forgetting he can’t. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughs again, exposing perfect, white teeth. “I think you’ve said that several times, Mariah. Actually, you’re no bother at all. This is the most pleasant of interruptions. Shall I take you to my spare bedroom, or would you prefer the couch?”

“I don’t want to be a bother. Take me wherever it’s easiest. I’m so…”

“Yes. I know. You’re sorry,” he chuckles.

For weeks I’ve been admiring Laurence’s chest and his bulging arms. I’ve seen him chinning himself on the bar by his chair, doing push-ups and sit-ups on the deck, lifting weights. I sigh. It’s even better observing him up close. Being carried in his arms is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.

Laurence takes me into his guest bedroom. I’m amazed once more how he’s acclimated himself so well. With my eyes close I couldn't walk an inch without cringing for fear that I’d hit something. Yet, he strides forward with a lawyer’s confidence. I feel amazingly safe in his arms. I sigh happily, despite the pain of my stupid knee.

He lowers me gently down on the bed. But in the space of time that he’s carried me down the hall, some strange connection has formed between us, and for a moment I can’t relinquish my arms from around his neck. I stare up at him, frozen.

He laughs. “You feel it, too?”

He sits down beside me, and his hand slowly travels my face. It’s the most unbelievable experience. It’s as if his hand is magic, and every place he touches comes alive with desire. His fingers brush through my hair. I’ve worn my shoulder-length hair in a ponytail that day. Laurence removes the band and smoothes out my hair.

“Beautiful hair. The texture of it is like sand running through the fingers, and it smells of vanilla. Tell me, Mariah, what color are your eyes?”

I am captive to his touch. Goose bumps notify me that this is one of those moments I’ll never forget.

“Green, like new ivy,” I tell him, “except, sometimes they darken to olive – when I get mad at someone.”

“Then they’ll always be ivy-colored with me. Never olive,” he tells me. “How about your hair? Are you a blonde or a brunette?”

I giggle. “Redhead.”

“How intriguing,” he chuckles. “Does that come with a temper?”

“No terrible temper. I do sing off key sometimes, though,” I tell him, laughing a bit nervously.

I don’t know what has come over me. I feel lethargic, unable to move. I’m usually what the ski circuit calls a prude or “a cold bitch,” depending on which of the males has just been rejected, but Laurence’s touch is like -- like kinetic energy. I want him to touch me.

I move his hand lower. He doesn’t resist. He begins to travel down my neck, touching, caressing, animating my skin. I sigh with the miracle of it. He slides himself even closer until our bodies are touching.

“I’ll stop when you want, Mariah, but I can’t see you. My hand is my eyes. Will you allow me to know your body?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I want you to. You’re making me alive. Don’t you feel that? I’ve never had anyone do this. Never.”

Laurence chuckles. “One minute, Mariah. I think I should close the door first. We don’t want interruptions, do we? Not while we’re just getting so nicely acquainted.”

I close my eyes and play back his words. I hear him shut the door, but it’s the meaning inside the words that causes my alarm. Something he’s said doesn’t feel right.

He slides back beside me, and his hand once more reaches out. “Stop, Laurence. This isn’t right. This isn’t me. I’m sorry.”

“You sure say, ‘I’m sorry a lot,’ “ he whispers, but he’s smiling down at me. “Will you kiss me once before I have to back away and let you rest your knee?”

He feels my nod, and his hand touches my face to guide his lips to mine. More magic. I forget all my resolve. My arms go around him, and I give into the pleasure of our kiss.

It lasts too short a time. He pulls away. “Mariah,” he says, “you’ve brought such beauty into the day. I’m thoroughly delighted we’re neighbors.”

He leaves me after that. I hear the door quietly close. I lie there thinking about what’s happened and how he makes me feel. I don’t mean to, but I fall asleep lying on the bed in the male-decorated room with its wood-toned paneling, bamboo-like wallpaper, and the ugly Oriental carpet that makes the room seem like a cheap hotel.

~~~

When I wake, I study my surroundings for a moment, confused about where I am. Then memory returns. I sit up. Of course, my knee twinges. It’s way past time for my painkillers.

Someone has kindly delivered my crutches. I lean into them and lift up. Then I hobble to the door and open it.

I’m immediately assaulted by the delicious odors of steak and baked potatoes. My stomach growls, reminding me I never ate my boiled egg and toast.

I'm just making my way to the front door when Laurence hears me. “Where're you going?” he asks. “Lunch is being served in the dining room today.”

I turn to look at him. He no longer wears his underwear but has managed to dress in a pair of brown slacks and a dark-blue polo shirt. I sigh my appreciation and hobble toward him. “I’m invited for lunch?” I ask. “How delightful.”

We smile constantly through the meal. Laurence can hardly keep his fingers off me. I can barely keep from climbing back into his arms. But we both agree we don’t want to rush it. Joe is there, for one thing. For another, we’re still learning about each other -- still careful like people always are with strangers, even ones we’re pretty sure we like.

That afternoon we spend all day discussing books and movies. We eat dinner by candlelight, then dance in our bare feet on the porch as the evening darkens.

~~~

In the days that follow, Laurence and I are together at every possible moment. We talk about everything. We read poems to each other, discuss newspaper editorials, even argue about the news. One day Laurence carries me down to the pier where we sit and listen to the water licking at the wood. Once we take out the boat and bob about in the waves. And we kiss. Oh, my, do we kiss.

Soon our evening talks grow into explorations far more intense than Laurence’s finger walking, although he still does that frequently -- touching my face and hands, installing me into his memory, as he calls it.

We both know it’s time to move forward, to experience a deeper togetherness. One night when I come to dinner, Joe isn’t there. The meal is spread on the table as usual, the candles are lit, and Rachmaninoff‘s “Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini” is playing. I know then what the night will hold for us, for I’d once mentioned how afraid I am of of that piano concerto since it opens me to passion.

There's a mischievous smile on Laurence’s face as he leads me to the table.

“You planned all this?” I ask.

His smile broadens. “Yes, and there are candles in the bedroom and a bottle of champagne on ice.”

My heart plunges off a cliff and gallops upstairs to his bedroom, but I sit down in the chair where Laurence places me. “What’s for dinner?” I ask.

“Well, I’ve told you about dessert -- if you choose to stay for it -- but dinner is . . .”

I suddenly don’t care. I throw myself into his arms and cling to him. “Forget about dinner,” I tell him. “I only want the dessert.”

“Are you sure?” Laurence asks as solemn as the first time I saw him.

It must be the cautious lawyer in him that asks that, for my hand is already walking his fingers to more desirable places. He touches my breasts. He smiles, but he doesn’t fall that easily. He cups my hand in both of his and sits down, pulling me into his lap.

“Mariah, are you positive? If I take you upstairs, I may lose all restraint. It has been a very long time.”

I slip his hand back inside my bra. What does it take to get the idea across?

“Don’t cross-examine me,” I tell him, laughing. “You’ve won your case, silly. I plead…”

He doesn’t let me finish. His lips find mine. His tongue slips inside.

I’ve worn a blouse that night. Its many buttons are no problem to Laurence. In seconds he's sliding it off. Then he unfastens the back of my bra, and the top half of me is naked. His hands to freely travel.

“Yes,” he says. “I knew you looked like this. I can picture you perfectly, my dear,” he tells me. But Laurence is not content with his “vision.” He continues exploring. I help him, unbuttoning his shirt, and slipping it off so I can run my fingers across his slightly hairy chest.

“Umm. I like what I feel, too,” I tell him, admiring the hardness of his well-muscled chest.

“Vixen,” he calls me, as he slips my skirt down.

I’ve worn no nylons that night. I slip out of my shoes. My toes curl around his. His feet are already bare.

“Well? Can’t you keep up with me?” Laurence asks, looking down at his pants.

I’ll admit my hands are shaking a bit. Rachmaninoff always does that to me, not to mention what Laurence is doing to my skin as his hands slide up and down and massage the nipples on my breasts. I’m tingling with passion, dizzy from his kisses, but I reach out and unhook and unzip. I’m just starting to slide his slacks down, when Laurence leans me against him and lifts me slightly.

“Oh,” I cry out. “Laurence. Upstairs, please?”

“No, you’re not finished. My pants are still on.”

“But . . .“

It's impossible to argue when his lips stop all my salient words and his tongue is teasing me with wicked, quick thrusts.

“Stop it. Order in the court,” I cry out, breaking away

Then I get a grip on his pants, and despite his lack of assistance, tug downward. His lemon-decorated boxers are my reward. I giggle.

“Are you making fun of my boxer shorts?” he asks, lifting me up over him so his mouth can nibble at my bobbing breasts.

“You’re not letting me . . .”

He’s holding me off the ground. I can’t see his slacks, but I can feel him stepping out of them.

“Problem solved,” he says. “Now, shall we adjourn for dessert?”

The way he’s sucking on my right breast leaves me breathless. I can’t answer. I groan. He takes that as an indication to change sides. I groan again.

“Sweet Mariah. Touch me. Let me feel your hand on me.”

I’m up in the air. There’s no way I can reach him, a fact I start to explain, but then he lowers me, sliding me down his body until our lips meet. My hand walks down his stomach. I am blind, too. I can’t see through the fog of my lust, but I can feel. When I reach his uprising, I close my hand and press my fingers against its hardness.

“Oh, Mariah. That feels so good. Move your hand up and down a little. That’s it. Yes.”

Once more our lips meld, but I’m in a position to play a bit. I guide his sword against my leg. It throbs and jerks. I shift slightly, wanting to feel him in the proper position.

“Mariah, you’ve given a dead man life. Do you understand? There’s not an inch of me that doesn’t yearn for your touch. I want you with every pore and every cell.”

“I know. I feel the same. Please, can’t we. . .”

Laurence sweeps me into his arms and heads off for the bedroom. There's no hesitation in his walk. He takes the stairs by twos, bouncing me a bit, laughing as his tongue thrusts at my bouncing flesh.

“Slow down,” I plead. “If you trip, guess who topples first?”

He chuckles. “Let go of you? Never, my dear. It’s far too late for that, Mariah. The champagne awaits us. Aren’t you thirsty, my dear?”

“Thirsty?” If he so much as touches the bottle, I know I’ll scream. I’m almost completely nude. One little bit of dainty frill -- and his silly, but enticing lemon boxers -- are all that separate us. I can’t wait another minute. Even before he enters the room and starts to lower me down on the bed, I am reaching for and ripping off those boxers.

“Look who’s suddenly taking the initiative,” he says. “I like it. What else are you planning to do?”

“Take off my panties and see,” I say, sticking my tongue out at him.

Almost before the words are issued, his hands slide the fabric down. I know I should be shy, but I’m not in the least. As his hands walk the parts of me he still has to become acquainted with, I arch my back and whimper.

His lips once more assail my right breast. His hand squeezes and plays. But it’s only for a moment. Then his lips are blowing hot kisses in a trail down my midsection, and his fingers are traveling even faster. He slides one into first base. I open for him and journey on an almost instantaneous trip to heaven.

“Oh, my. Laurence. Oh…”

As if that’s his cue, he stands up. “Where are you going?” I call out, thinking he’s leaving.

“Just a moment, sweetheart. Just getting provisions.”

“I don’t want any champagne, Laurence. I just want you.”

He’s back in a moment with the necessary package. “Mariah, did you think I’d interrupt the moment if I didn’t have to?”

“Oh, my God. I almost forgot. Thank you.”

He chuckles, but it’s short-lived. He’s already opening the package and sliding it on. It’s a rainbow one, but I don’t care what color it is.

The night grows lovelier. First Laurence rides me. Then we flip, and I’m on top, but that doesn’t work at all, for my knee won’t allow such sport. So conventionality wins. Neither of us complains. The rainbow takes us on a very long ride, and when our love bursts into a hundred flying spots of color, we both sigh from the pleasure.

Afterward, we lay still a moment, my hand on his chest, his on my left breast. We kiss with the slow and intensely satisfied respite of true intimacy. We don’t need the usual questions, “Was it good for you? Was it all right?” We both know how special the lovemaking was -- as is the next time and the next. . .

When we're so exhausted we can do no more repeats, we sleep wrapped up in each other.

Much later, in the morning, when the sun shines warmth through the uncovered window, we wake and exchange smiles, Laurence feels my face with his fingers, but that's no longer really necessary. We’ve journeyed beyond that, for our hearts now and forever are permanently imprinted in each other's.

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