SILENCE IS GOLDEN
Ducky recalls the night he and Jethro first made love.
An established relationship story.
Written: March 2007. Word count: 800.
I still do not know why you choose that night of all nights to tell me how you felt about me.
Of course 'tell' is, strictly speaking, inaccurate, as you had been stricken with an attack of laryngitis, and as such could not tell me, nor indeed anyone else, anything.
Director Morrow had given me strict instructions to take you home and keep you there. Quite how he expected me to achieve that, I know not. However, I did as he ordered; I did take you home with me.
Mother was visiting Mrs. Patterson, so we were alone.
I sat in silence watching you pace like a caged animal around my sitting room, pausing occasionally to look at me. However, every time I opened my mouth to say something, your look became a glare. Thus, in the end, I joined you in silence, and resigned myself to a night of the same.
I knew there was something you wished to say, something you wanted to share with me. I just had no idea what the something was. I also knew that not being able to tell me was troubling you, more than I had ever seen anything trouble you. However, again I knew not what to do about it; something had told me that offering you a pen and piece of paper, would not be a sensible thing to do.
So instead I let what had become a tense, a heavy, an unusual silence continue, trusting in you to find the solution to what was your own problem. Wishing there was something I could do; wishing for the telepathy the children seem certain we share.
And then you found the solution.
One moment I was sitting watching you stalk around the room; the next . . . The next I was in your arms, my lips being crushed by your own, my mouth opening to you, my body reacting to the way your hands touched me, caressed me, stroked me. You didn't need words to tell me how much you wanted me; your urgency was clear.
My head was spinning with the surprise, the shock, as well as my own near overwhelming desire, and the sudden realization that it appeared all my dreams and fantasies were about to become reality.
Six times I tried, between kisses, to speak. Each time, however, you simply kissed me again. Forced to be silent yourself, you had forced the same silence on to me.
For a moment I thought that we would end up making love on the sofa or indeed the floor, and I would have done so, your desire seemed so intense. But then you pulled away again, cupped my face and look down at me, looked into my eyes, really looked at me. And as I looked back at you; I saw your stress, your uncertainty fade, and you smiled at me.
Several kisses later you took my hand and led me to my own bed. Still I kept silent; at least I did not speak.
You undressed me.
You turned back the covers.
You took my hand and urged me to get into bed.
Seconds later you were there with me, naked, unclothed, your skin warm to the touch, and you began to make love to me. And you continued to do thus on and off throughout the night.
Your touch was sure, with just enough hesitancy to confirm what I already knew: you had not slept with, had not kissed, had not caressed, a man before. I said that I had dreamed of, fanaticized of, being with you in such an intimate way, and I had. I always believed that I had a good imagination, a vivid one, but it fell woefully short as I experienced reality.
You might have been silent as far as your voice went, but you were far from silent in other ways. Each touch, each caress, each stroke, each kiss, each time part of your body, lips, tongue or mouth connected with my own, told me as many things as if you'd verbalized them.
Without words you told me how much you cared, how much you loved me, wanted me, needed me. You told me how much of yourself you were giving to me, and what you were offering, what you expected from me, what you wanted from me.
That night, our first, was fifteen years ago, and we have spent many, many, many nights together since then; in fact nowadays we spend every night together. And sometimes, if the mood is right, if we both concur, we spend verbally silent nights together.
I still do not know why you choose that night of all nights to tell me how you felt about me. But I am eternally grateful that you did.
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