Waking fantasy, Thanksgiving morning [PG-13]

[Another response to jazzbaby1’s note that “Simple Gifts” is the main Thanksgiving song. This (George Winston, “Thanksgiving,” from December [1982]) is actually the contemporary piece I associate most with Thanksgiving, though I realize it is not the sort of thing likely to appeal to retailers or generate lots of sales. If you like this, you might enjoy the rest of the album (I think his take on “Carol of the Bells,” a song I don’t especially like, is really persuasive), although listening to it now, it sounds dated. I used to have all of his seasons albums but I think the only one I still have is December. I remember listening to Windham Hill artists a lot in the early 1980s, especially Liz Story and Alex de Grassi, at the urging of our band teacher. They were really exotic to us. I remember when Liz Story played a concert at the nearest university, what a big deal it was to us, how we all dressed up and planned an outing to the only Mexican restaurant in over 100 mi as part of the evening. After the concert, which was packed, where she played encore after encore, you could buy the music on LP or a new format called a CD. “Won’t catch on,” my band teacher said. “Everyone has a record player; LPs are forever.”]

Imagine this playing in the background of the fantasy.

In Chikurubi Prison, John Porter (Richard Armitage) wakes up from a dream of erotic liberation and physical imprisonment, in Strike Back 1.3. Source: RichardArmitageNet.com


I’m sleeping, and I feel Porter untangle himself from around me and get up. The light is bright through the blinds. I hear the toilet flush, and the sink run a bit, and then he’s back in the bedroom, slipping back into bed, lying back next to me. After this move, I bought a twin, just like I had at my parents’, so he’s especially close, his body especially near.

“You’re letting all the heat out,” I moan. “And your hands are cold.”

“Warm them up, then,” he suggests, and I jerk a bit in response as he runs them over my body.

“Time to wake up,” he says. “It’s almost 10 o’clock!”

“And it’s Thanksgiving, so no classes today. We can sleep in.”

“Yeah, no classes means I get smart girl all to myself. With no lectures! You’re always so focused on days when you teach, I can’t really get your attention unless you’re worried about something and need me to reassure you.”

I lift my head off the pillow and twist it to look at him. “That’s not fair. I pay you all kinds of attention considering you don’t actually exist, and I’m not sure you’d reciprocate if you were in my position. Seriously: Do you think if you were real, and not my fantasy, you’d be at all interested in someone like me?”

“I said, no lectures. That includes epistemological questions.”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “I’m the only reason you even know what that word means.”

“So you’re asking,” he says, now moving his somewhat warmer hands more slowly down my waist, and then dropping a soft kiss in the hollow behind my ear lobe, “if I would,” he pauses, nibbling on the lobe, “in a world where I actually existed,” he pauses again, running his tongue along the margin of my ear, “kiss you on your temple like this?” he says, demonstratively. “If I’d want you this badly?” His left hand has now moved to pull my lower belly back more firmly against his hips and what he means is now concretely clear. “Badly enough to wake you up from a sound sleep to help me take care of this?” He thrusts suggestively.

My breath has deepened in response, as he directs his kisses down the side of my face, and then, brooking no resistance, the pressure from his hands turns me onto my back. “I’m not sure what I’m asking, anymore,” I say, breathlessly.

“Hmm, I guess you would call this an epistemological difficulty?” he says, as the left side of his mouth twitches, slightly. “I’ll fix that for you, right away. Because I know exactly what you want.”

I can feel he’s in a hurry this morning, and though I’m not sure why the fantasy is taking this unexpected turn, his caresses more than speed me up, too. He’s on top of me, one of his knees between my legs, hard, pressed up against my thigh, and his hands quickly push my nightshirt up around my neck and then over my head. His mouth is insatiable, and I’m not sure if he’s kissing me to intensify the foreplay, or simply to satisfy his own need to put his mouth all over my mouth and neck, but it doesn’t matter. That little filament somewhere behind my navel is flaring like a short circuit on an ever faster cycle.

“I know exactly what you want,” he repeats, his voice now very low in my ear, and his hands rougher as he uses his thumbs in just exactly the way I’ve been wishing he would. “Do you want me to show you?” His teeth close, rougher now, on my earlobe.

Unintelligible syllables force themselves out of my mouth. I’m twisting a bit under his hands, but he’s holding them firm on the sides of my chest, and I see his eyes, almost wild, and I cough in a breath in response to the unrestrained face of his desire. Then his lips descend to follow where his thumbs just went, and as his teeth come into play, he’s pinned me with his legs so I can’t move very far, and the tension is irresistible. My belly moves up toward his hands and I hear him growl.

With a supreme effort, I dislodge his leg, twist to the side and present my back to him. “This way,” I say, and reach behind me to pull him in my direction. Our groans as he sinks into me are simultaneous and strangely harmonic and now, as I struggle for breath, the increasingly uncontrolled sounds of his own increasing pleasure rasp into my ear. He keeps his hand on my hip at first, but then it moves forward and I start to jerk, my movement involuntary now. “Please,” I say, having surrendered all of my will to his movements, “please…”

“I told you,” he gasps, “I know,” he continues as his thrusting becomes pounding, “what you want.” And then I feel his fingers press, and he gives it to me.

Afterwards, us spooned, he says, “Should I have shaved first?”

I shake my head.

“Was it too rough?”

I shake my head again, still too hazy for words. “Intense.”

“Good,” he says, and gathers me more tightly into his arms. “But it wasn’t a fair question.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, still a bit foggy, turning my head slightly back in his direction.

“If I were real in the same world in which you were real,” he says, nuzzling into the nape of my neck, “you wouldn’t be interested, either. Come on.” He kisses me again. “Catch your breath, love, and we can start cooking the dinner. I’m hungry for that green bean casserole. Reminds me of mess.”

“I can see that,” I muse. It’s not unlike vegetarian shit on a shingle. “But I get to introduce you to the game!” I say, brightening.

“What game is that, love?”

“THE game,” I smile with true glee, already happy about the prospect of three hours spent on the sofa, intermittently playing the Packers football kissing / makeout game. And he’s going to have the Lions, poor man. “You’ll see.” I push him out of bed, happily, and then get up myself to shower.

~ by Servetus on November 25, 2011.

21 Responses to “Waking fantasy, Thanksgiving morning [PG-13]”

  1. Oh, Portah. You sexy beast. Intense sex AND the Packers?

    What more could a girl want? ๐Ÿ˜‰

    Someone certainly woke up on the right side of the bed.
    (It must have been really cosy in that twin. I remember how Richard had to fold himself up on Lexie’s bed) ๐Ÿ˜€


    • I can’t imagine that the actual Richard Armitage could sleep in an American twin. I’m sure his feet would hang off the bottom of the bed. ๐Ÿ™‚

      Yeah, it was a good day. I’ve been tricking my body since the time change (I just never switched any of the clocks, and have been getting up at the same time every day), which has been good for productivity, but this morning I turned the alarm clock off. Oh, did that feel good. Not sure why fantasy Porter was so vehement this morning, though.


      • Yeah, I would think Richard in real life would need at least a queen-size bed for those long legs of his. Poor Benny was almost hanging off the double bed at my sister’s, and he’s not quite as tall as RA. ๐Ÿ˜‰

        That was part of the charm of the scene with Porter and his daughter. This big, strapping soldier managing to fit onto that little bed in order to comfort his daughter. Makes me go all melty inside. The same response I felt watching Benny sitting Indian-style on the floor with our great-niece while playing pretend. ๐Ÿ˜€

        Glad you were able to enjoy sleeping in. My sleeping has been more screwed-up than usual ever since the accident. I am trying to be more active and then I pay for it in pain. Still something hinky going on near the base of my spine. I don’t think it’s anything serious, it is just taking forever to heal, it seems.


        • Hope it continues to improve.


          • I’m just a touch stir crazy, I have decided (hence the 101st video this morning). Benny doesn’t want me trying to do too much here alone, but I am hoping to take a walkabout later after a restorative nap.


  2. WOW!!! Porter is certainly the stuff of which hot fantasies are made!!! ๐Ÿ˜‰

    Beautiful pic.


  3. Oh, and I meant to say, beautiful choice of music! ๐Ÿ™‚
    (I got sidetracked imagining waking up with him looking like that beside me…)


  4. Love this! Very hot…and it made me smile. Might have had to read it twice ๐Ÿ˜‰


  5. Nice fantasy. The only way it would have been better is if the Lions would have won. ๐Ÿ˜‰


    • that truly would have been a fantasy ๐Ÿ™‚

      in the kissing / makeout game, each partner has a team. Partners agree to certain “treats” for certain events in the game (first down, field goal, etc.). So the person who has the losing team has to do more work. But no one is the loser, in the end ๐Ÿ™‚


  6. Wow, Servetus, thanks so much for including the George Winston!! I saw him years ago in concert in Boston and this song STILL evokes sweet memories of crisp college days in New England (when I always relished coming in from the cold to a roaring fire in the living room and someone playing piano music from the December album!)

    And what a wonderful day after Thanksgiving morning with John Porter! I’ll admit I am still disoriented by the lack of “American football” on tv screens here. Just seems wrong to eat turkey and stuffing without a room full of guys in another room in the house cheering and channel surfing all the various football games in play ๐Ÿ™‚

    Happy Belated Thanksgiving, Servetus. I am very thankful for your blog and all the wonderful, loving and creative communications it engenders. Oh yeah – I guess I should give thanks for that guy who unwittingly inspires all this creativity and genius too, huh? What was his name? Oh yes, there it is – in the title of your blog – thank goodness, I’d probably not remember it otherwise. ๐Ÿ˜‰


    • Happy Thanksgiving to you in the expat world (I had some delightful expat Thanksgivings but it is true they were always impacted by the lack of US football).

      Yeah, the name’s totally forgettable ๐Ÿ™‚


  7. *gulp*


  8. […] vindication, as worker-out of trauma, as cheerleader, as father, as wash and wear soldier-type, and infinitely reliable quick sex fantasy, as troubling victim — and there I’m linking only a few of the posts I’ve written […]


  9. […] child, and my simultaneous love and discomfort for this most American of U.S. holidays); 2011 and a Thanksgiving / John Porter fantasy; 2012 (when I was thankful for the ceasefire in Gaza); 2013 (when I was still drowning in […]


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