fic: Great Plans
this is for dear-tiger, so she'll stop pestering me. :p thanks to amnisias for the german.
Conrad and I had great plans for tonight - or I should say, Conrad had great plans - but Julie Winslow unexpectedly goes into labor at three-thirty, and I cannot leave. This is her second pregnancy, but it has been a difficult one and both she and her husband are worried, and I cannot leave them in the hands of another obstetrician. I ask my secretary to please call the house and tell Conrad I will be late, and to apologize for me, and to say that I will be home as soon as I can.
Julie delivers a healthy baby boy just after nine o'clock. He is on the small side, but he is also a month early, and the Winslows are so relieved that he is well that they do not care about his size. I too am relieved, not only that the child is healthy and the parents are happy, but that I may go home to Conrad and whatever dinner I have forced him to keep warm for me.
I call from the hospital, right before I leave, so he will know I am on my way.
"How is the baby?" he asks.
"Five pounds, four ounces," I tell him. "Small, but otherwise healthy."
"And the parents?"
"Tired and relieved. As am I."
"Then come home and I will perk you right up."
I smile at the phone. He tells he loves me and hangs up.
There are no stores open at this hour, no florists, no bakeries, no candy shops, so I am forced to arrive home empty-handed, with nothing to help make up for the fact that I am four hours late. But Conrad does not seem to mind. He meets me at the door with a glass of wine, kisses me on the lips, and tells me he is happy I am home.
"If Julie had not gone into labor I would have been home on time," I say. "The baby was not due for another month. Did I ruin dinner?"
"It should still be edible," he tells me, teasing, "although the duck might be a bit dry."
He puts Edith Piaf on the stereo. The table is set with the good china and crystal - we have fine diningware as would any married couple, although we did not receive any of it as a wedding present - and there is a vase of roses in the center. Conrad moves the vase to the sideboard before we eat. Dinner is salad and asparagus with butter and duck with a cherry and port sauce and rice with sauteed almonds, and for dessert Conrad has made a baked Alaska, which I realize when he turns out the lights and carries it into the dining room, burning merrily.
I am surprised he does not set off the smoke detector, but I do not say so. I am also impressed.
He sets it in front of me and we wait for the alcohol on the meringue to burn off.
"This is lovely," I say, "but what are you going to have?" He laughs and sticks his tongue out at me like a little boy before going into the den to pour us an after-dinner drink to have with our dessert.
Conrad tells me about his day, and I tell him about mine, and we eat our baked Alaska and sip our cognac and I look across the table and wonder what I have done in this life to have deserved him.
"What are you thinking?" he asks me.
"That I am a very lucky man," I say. "I have a successful medical practice that brings me joy and fulfillment. I have a house of my own. I have good friends. I have just had a wonderful dinner. And I have you." I finish my cognac. "If you come to bed with me, I will show you exactly how grateful I am."
He hides his expression in his glass, but I can see him smiling. "We should clean up first," he says. "The dessert plates, at least."
So I carry the dirty plates and silverware and glasses into the kitchen, and he wraps up the remainder of the baked Alaska, and we turn off the stereo and turn out the lights and make sure the doors are locked, and we go to bed.
"Why have you put on your pajamas?" I ask him. "I am only going to take them off."
"You can unwrap me, as if I were a present." He grins slyly. I take his face in both hands and kiss him deeply, as that is the only response I wish to give.
We are middle-aged men now, Conrad and I, but what we may have lost in energy we have more than made up in experience. We do not have the stamina we had at twenty, but we know more about each other than we did then, and we are in no hurry.
We became lovers at a time and in a place where we could not speak it, and until we bought this house, we always lived in flats with neighbors on the other side of the wall, or below the floor or above the ceiling. We have always had to be quiet. By the time we moved into the house and could make all the noise we wished, the near-silence had become a habit we could not break ourselves of. But to be honest, I have always loved the soft sounds of Conrad's labored breathing, his quiet moans, the muted noises he can bring out of me. It is more intimate, to my mind, than if we screamed and cried out.
But it does not mean that I do not sometimes wish that Conrad would raise his voice, just a little, so that God might hear the pleasure He has allowed us to have with each other.
The house is dark and quiet, save for those very quiet sounds of pleasure, and as Conrad moves beneath me I am once again struck by how very lucky I am, how very grateful I am, and how very much I love him. He is still beautiful, my Conrad, even at fifty-four - his hair is still thick and blond, and while I know he has gray in it, you cannot see it unless you know to look. He has laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes, crows'-feet from laughing at the world, and at me. He exercises regularly. He is still tall and strong. And he is mine, as he has been since we were seventeen, as he will be until we are dust.
"Conrad," I murmur against his lips. "My love, my heart."
"Shh," he murmurs in response. His hands trail down my back to my ass. He squeezes. I do not want to thrust any faster, or any deeper, not yet. I am content with the slow way we move together. I wish to stay inside him as long as I can. I kiss his mouth and bite at his lips and run my hands through his hair and touch his skin and I am amazed, as I sometimes am, at this proof that God does indeed love me and wish for me to be happy.
I love Conrad for his kindness, his intelligence and wit, his cooking. I love him because he can talk to teenagers and I cannot. I love his light heart and his laughter, his artistic talents, and the fact that he is a man of principles and conviction, even if I do not always agree with those principles or the places that conviction takes him. I love him because he worked so I might attend medical school, and I love him because he will never stop trying to make me appreciate the things he enjoys, and he will never stop trying to appreciate the things that give me joy.
I love him because for seven years he dreamed of the day he would see me again, and when we were finally reunited, even though I was no longer the boy he knew, he loved me still.
But tonight, my love is far more carnal and earthy, for I love him because of the touch of his fingers and the taste of his mouth and the pressure of his body, for the quiet noises he makes and the look on his face when I touch him, when I enter him, when I move inside him. I love him because the thought of him arouses and excites me, because the thought of me arouses and excites him. I love him because the pure physicality of him makes me feel as though I am a young man again, half-educated and unsophisticated, but full of energy to make up for what I lack in skill.
Tonight, on this bed, in this room, at this hour, I am wildly, uncontrollably, inarticulately in love with Conrad Maurer for one reason, and that is because the nearness of him makes me hard.
But as much as I wish to remain like this, the two of us rocking together on the bed, his hands on my ass and my hands on his face, it too must end. I would like Conrad to climax first, and with the help of my hand, he does. But I am right behind him, breathless in my orgasm, his eyes on my face the entire time.
Afterwards we rearrange ourselves so that we are side by side, flushed and sated and tired and happy.
"I should make you dinner more often," Conrad says, "if this is how you thank me." He touches my cheek.
"You make me dinner every night," I remind him.
"Then you should thank me more often." He grins. "You should thank me every night."
I lean in and kiss him. "I should. Perhaps I will."
He chuckles. "Shall I hold you to that?"
"You may hold me to anything you wish." He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
"How is that?" he murmurs in my ear. His voice is low and deep. I do not think I am up for another round, and I do not think he is either, but I admire him for trying.
I kiss him in response. He kisses me back, and for several minutes we just lie there, arms and legs wrapped around each other, enjoying the taste of each other’s mouths. Our kisses are slow and languid and when we pause for breath, I tell Conrad that I love him.
"I love you too," he answers, and then "It was the baked Alaska, wasn't it." He grins and I laugh, and this is why I love him, why I have worked so hard for nearly a quarter century, why I survived the things I did when I was younger - so I could lie in bed next to him and he could make me laugh, so I could luxuriate in the fact that I am able to live with the man who brings me such happiness.
"To be honest," I say, pretending to contemplate the many reasons I might love him, "it was the asparagus." I try to keep my tone even and my face serious. Conrad's grin widens.
"You are a terrible person, Oskar."
"I know. But you still love me."
"Yes. Yes I do."
"And I love you, Schnuckelhaeschen."
He stares at me, astonished at being called a little cuddlebunny - it is an endearment that boys might call their girlfriends, and not a thing grown men call each other. Then he twitches his nose at me, like a rabbit, and grins at me and climbs out of bed.
I lie there, wallowing in my post-coital bliss, watching him dress for bed and admiring his naked form, until he flips the blankets off me and drops my pajamas on my head. I can take a hint. Besides, I am a bit sticky.
Sex has always made Conrad hungry, and by the time I have washed and dressed and gotten back in bed, he has been to the kitchen and returned with cookies.
"Crumbs, Conrad," I admonish, as he slides under the blankets with a cookie between his teeth. He only grins around it and offers me one. They are oatmeal-raisin, baked by one of my nurses, and I cannot resist. But I am tired, for if sex makes Conrad hungry, it now puts me to sleep. I have eaten well and made love to the love of my life, and now I just wish to close my eyes and dream.
I kiss Conrad on the cheek - his mouth is full of cookie - and tell him as much, and not five minutes later we are lying next to each other once again and I am asleep.
if you're curious, this is what conrad makes for dinner.
Conrad and I had great plans for tonight - or I should say, Conrad had great plans - but Julie Winslow unexpectedly goes into labor at three-thirty, and I cannot leave. This is her second pregnancy, but it has been a difficult one and both she and her husband are worried, and I cannot leave them in the hands of another obstetrician. I ask my secretary to please call the house and tell Conrad I will be late, and to apologize for me, and to say that I will be home as soon as I can.
Julie delivers a healthy baby boy just after nine o'clock. He is on the small side, but he is also a month early, and the Winslows are so relieved that he is well that they do not care about his size. I too am relieved, not only that the child is healthy and the parents are happy, but that I may go home to Conrad and whatever dinner I have forced him to keep warm for me.
I call from the hospital, right before I leave, so he will know I am on my way.
"How is the baby?" he asks.
"Five pounds, four ounces," I tell him. "Small, but otherwise healthy."
"And the parents?"
"Tired and relieved. As am I."
"Then come home and I will perk you right up."
I smile at the phone. He tells he loves me and hangs up.
There are no stores open at this hour, no florists, no bakeries, no candy shops, so I am forced to arrive home empty-handed, with nothing to help make up for the fact that I am four hours late. But Conrad does not seem to mind. He meets me at the door with a glass of wine, kisses me on the lips, and tells me he is happy I am home.
"If Julie had not gone into labor I would have been home on time," I say. "The baby was not due for another month. Did I ruin dinner?"
"It should still be edible," he tells me, teasing, "although the duck might be a bit dry."
He puts Edith Piaf on the stereo. The table is set with the good china and crystal - we have fine diningware as would any married couple, although we did not receive any of it as a wedding present - and there is a vase of roses in the center. Conrad moves the vase to the sideboard before we eat. Dinner is salad and asparagus with butter and duck with a cherry and port sauce and rice with sauteed almonds, and for dessert Conrad has made a baked Alaska, which I realize when he turns out the lights and carries it into the dining room, burning merrily.
I am surprised he does not set off the smoke detector, but I do not say so. I am also impressed.
He sets it in front of me and we wait for the alcohol on the meringue to burn off.
"This is lovely," I say, "but what are you going to have?" He laughs and sticks his tongue out at me like a little boy before going into the den to pour us an after-dinner drink to have with our dessert.
Conrad tells me about his day, and I tell him about mine, and we eat our baked Alaska and sip our cognac and I look across the table and wonder what I have done in this life to have deserved him.
"What are you thinking?" he asks me.
"That I am a very lucky man," I say. "I have a successful medical practice that brings me joy and fulfillment. I have a house of my own. I have good friends. I have just had a wonderful dinner. And I have you." I finish my cognac. "If you come to bed with me, I will show you exactly how grateful I am."
He hides his expression in his glass, but I can see him smiling. "We should clean up first," he says. "The dessert plates, at least."
So I carry the dirty plates and silverware and glasses into the kitchen, and he wraps up the remainder of the baked Alaska, and we turn off the stereo and turn out the lights and make sure the doors are locked, and we go to bed.
"Why have you put on your pajamas?" I ask him. "I am only going to take them off."
"You can unwrap me, as if I were a present." He grins slyly. I take his face in both hands and kiss him deeply, as that is the only response I wish to give.
We are middle-aged men now, Conrad and I, but what we may have lost in energy we have more than made up in experience. We do not have the stamina we had at twenty, but we know more about each other than we did then, and we are in no hurry.
We became lovers at a time and in a place where we could not speak it, and until we bought this house, we always lived in flats with neighbors on the other side of the wall, or below the floor or above the ceiling. We have always had to be quiet. By the time we moved into the house and could make all the noise we wished, the near-silence had become a habit we could not break ourselves of. But to be honest, I have always loved the soft sounds of Conrad's labored breathing, his quiet moans, the muted noises he can bring out of me. It is more intimate, to my mind, than if we screamed and cried out.
But it does not mean that I do not sometimes wish that Conrad would raise his voice, just a little, so that God might hear the pleasure He has allowed us to have with each other.
The house is dark and quiet, save for those very quiet sounds of pleasure, and as Conrad moves beneath me I am once again struck by how very lucky I am, how very grateful I am, and how very much I love him. He is still beautiful, my Conrad, even at fifty-four - his hair is still thick and blond, and while I know he has gray in it, you cannot see it unless you know to look. He has laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes, crows'-feet from laughing at the world, and at me. He exercises regularly. He is still tall and strong. And he is mine, as he has been since we were seventeen, as he will be until we are dust.
"Conrad," I murmur against his lips. "My love, my heart."
"Shh," he murmurs in response. His hands trail down my back to my ass. He squeezes. I do not want to thrust any faster, or any deeper, not yet. I am content with the slow way we move together. I wish to stay inside him as long as I can. I kiss his mouth and bite at his lips and run my hands through his hair and touch his skin and I am amazed, as I sometimes am, at this proof that God does indeed love me and wish for me to be happy.
I love Conrad for his kindness, his intelligence and wit, his cooking. I love him because he can talk to teenagers and I cannot. I love his light heart and his laughter, his artistic talents, and the fact that he is a man of principles and conviction, even if I do not always agree with those principles or the places that conviction takes him. I love him because he worked so I might attend medical school, and I love him because he will never stop trying to make me appreciate the things he enjoys, and he will never stop trying to appreciate the things that give me joy.
I love him because for seven years he dreamed of the day he would see me again, and when we were finally reunited, even though I was no longer the boy he knew, he loved me still.
But tonight, my love is far more carnal and earthy, for I love him because of the touch of his fingers and the taste of his mouth and the pressure of his body, for the quiet noises he makes and the look on his face when I touch him, when I enter him, when I move inside him. I love him because the thought of him arouses and excites me, because the thought of me arouses and excites him. I love him because the pure physicality of him makes me feel as though I am a young man again, half-educated and unsophisticated, but full of energy to make up for what I lack in skill.
Tonight, on this bed, in this room, at this hour, I am wildly, uncontrollably, inarticulately in love with Conrad Maurer for one reason, and that is because the nearness of him makes me hard.
But as much as I wish to remain like this, the two of us rocking together on the bed, his hands on my ass and my hands on his face, it too must end. I would like Conrad to climax first, and with the help of my hand, he does. But I am right behind him, breathless in my orgasm, his eyes on my face the entire time.
Afterwards we rearrange ourselves so that we are side by side, flushed and sated and tired and happy.
"I should make you dinner more often," Conrad says, "if this is how you thank me." He touches my cheek.
"You make me dinner every night," I remind him.
"Then you should thank me more often." He grins. "You should thank me every night."
I lean in and kiss him. "I should. Perhaps I will."
He chuckles. "Shall I hold you to that?"
"You may hold me to anything you wish." He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
"How is that?" he murmurs in my ear. His voice is low and deep. I do not think I am up for another round, and I do not think he is either, but I admire him for trying.
I kiss him in response. He kisses me back, and for several minutes we just lie there, arms and legs wrapped around each other, enjoying the taste of each other’s mouths. Our kisses are slow and languid and when we pause for breath, I tell Conrad that I love him.
"I love you too," he answers, and then "It was the baked Alaska, wasn't it." He grins and I laugh, and this is why I love him, why I have worked so hard for nearly a quarter century, why I survived the things I did when I was younger - so I could lie in bed next to him and he could make me laugh, so I could luxuriate in the fact that I am able to live with the man who brings me such happiness.
"To be honest," I say, pretending to contemplate the many reasons I might love him, "it was the asparagus." I try to keep my tone even and my face serious. Conrad's grin widens.
"You are a terrible person, Oskar."
"I know. But you still love me."
"Yes. Yes I do."
"And I love you, Schnuckelhaeschen."
He stares at me, astonished at being called a little cuddlebunny - it is an endearment that boys might call their girlfriends, and not a thing grown men call each other. Then he twitches his nose at me, like a rabbit, and grins at me and climbs out of bed.
I lie there, wallowing in my post-coital bliss, watching him dress for bed and admiring his naked form, until he flips the blankets off me and drops my pajamas on my head. I can take a hint. Besides, I am a bit sticky.
Sex has always made Conrad hungry, and by the time I have washed and dressed and gotten back in bed, he has been to the kitchen and returned with cookies.
"Crumbs, Conrad," I admonish, as he slides under the blankets with a cookie between his teeth. He only grins around it and offers me one. They are oatmeal-raisin, baked by one of my nurses, and I cannot resist. But I am tired, for if sex makes Conrad hungry, it now puts me to sleep. I have eaten well and made love to the love of my life, and now I just wish to close my eyes and dream.
I kiss Conrad on the cheek - his mouth is full of cookie - and tell him as much, and not five minutes later we are lying next to each other once again and I am asleep.
if you're curious, this is what conrad makes for dinner.