. . . i start to feel a fever from the warm air through the screen you come regular like seasons shadowing my dreams . . .
She lies in bed, tossing and turning. It’s the heat, she thinks; unbearable and stagnant. Not like the fresh mountain breeze in the evening, tinged with the faint traces of wood smoke. She flops onto her belly, hoping to find a cool breeze somewhere to soothe her skin. She can feel the dark pieces of the dream tugging her back down into sleep. It was a dream, right?
A lightning flash illuminates the room, followed by a series of sharp claps of thunder that she feels low in her belly, making her heart race. In that instance, she remembers what woke her. It was a dream. But not just a dream: the dream. The one that makes her feverish, leaving her pulse thundering, the memories of scent fresh in her nostrils: fire, citrus and alcohol, trees and river water, sweat overlaying the clean smell of soap. The moon is still almost full and the rain on the windows creates a haze. Making her think of car windows fogged over in the chill of the night.
She’s haunted by the images again. Can’t sleep as they flicker through her brain. She finds herself holding her breath again. Though in the dark of this night, he’s not there to whisper “breathe” - she has to remind herself, over and over again. While her mind plays out the scenes in the shadows of her memory . . .
. . . and i guess that's how you started like a pinprick to my heart but at this point you rush right through me and i start to drown . . .
She’d been caught off guard before, but never when her mind was clear, like it had been that night. Laying there in the heat of this night, retracing her steps, rethinking every moment, she could see it laid out in small increments before her, leading to the eventual. In the moment, though, she had been oblivious. She remembered pausing a couple times back then, waiting for him to do something obvious, but he was never like anyone else. And so she became comfortable in his space. He was complex in a way, but uncomplicated. Calming and easy-going, finding pleasure in sharing small but important things with her; music, the mountains, work, life, dreams. Like old friends did.
She remembered the instant she became aware that they’d fallen into something that was more than just comfortable. She asked where the bathroom was; he gave her directions, his hand resting on the small of her back. She walked away, the heat signature from his fingers still burning the skin and causing gooseflesh on her neck. She made herself breathe. He was smiling when she returned, and they sat on the barstools facing each other, their knees touching occasionally. Despite the electricity of his touch, she was immediately comfortable again. Until in the middle of conversation, he reached up to stroke a finger down her cheek. She caught her breath again. But smiled, the heat rising in her face. And then he asked a question, smiling tentatively, like a nervous teenager. A simple request – a gentleman’s request: just a kiss on the forehead. She found it hard to breathe, but said yes. He touched her arm, and leaned in to touch his lips to her skin, and she inhaled his scent as he came close, feeling slightly dizzy, a flush spreading across her body. So simple, yet so intimate.
They left soon after, she, still feeling warm, even as the night chill set in more. And for a moment, she thought that was all it might be. Until he kissed her at the gas station, lightly and quickly. But his mouth pressed against hers, for that brief moment, was the next question. She was unsure if she answered it correctly, as they exchanged no words. But when he told the next stranger they saw that this was their first “date”, there was no mistaking how he’d interpreted the answer.
. . . dark and dangerous like a secret that gets whispered in a hush (don't tell a soul) when i wake the things i dreamt about you last night make me blush (don't tell a soul) . . .
Sitting in the truck, the silence soft around them, moonlight outlining trees and bushes and rocks, she felt calm. The moonlight did nothing to dim the stars, and she sat in the front seat, twisting and turning to see them around her. The darkness, illuminated by the moon, made her remember summer nights in childhood staring out at the night skies, a blanket spread on the lawn as she spotted constellations. The music continued to play in the background, and she occasionally would hum or sing, like she’d been doing all evening. She was turned with her back the front window, looking up at the sky above her, marveling at how prominent the stars were when they weren’t competing with the city lights. When she looked down again, he leaned closer to her, and she knew it was coming. His lips touched hers, then parted, their tongues carefully searching each other out, testing. He paused for a second, and she held her breath. She didn’t release it until he spoke. “Breathe.” She let out her breath in a rush, kissing him again. Starting the same cycle over again. “Breathe,” he commanded, gently, but her breathing was erratic. “Breathe into me,” he whispered, and it sounded so easy. She fitted her mouth against his, but found her chest heaving anyway, trying to catch her breath while his kisses lit fires low in her groin, making her squirm in the seat.
She reached a hand up to run through his hair. It was soft and fine at the back of his neck, slipping easily through her hands. Silky against her touch, she slid her hands up to the top of his head, where his hair was longer. His kisses were electric, and the intensity mounted. Without thinking, she slid his hair between her fingers and pulled his mouth tight against hers. He responded immediately, threading his fingers in her long hair and tugging her head back, kissing her forcefully, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. She felt her body respond, liquefy, and her heart raced faster. He tugged the strap of her tank top down, followed by her bra; his mouth covered a nipple, sucking on it firmly, and she ran her fingers through his hair again, moaning softly.
Gentle turned frantic at one point, and he struggled with her jeans. The movements made her stop; think. She shouldn’t be here, doing this. He paused. “Don’t you want me?” His voice was plaintive. “It’s not a matter of want,” she said. “It’s a matter of ‘should’ . . .” He kissed her more, tugging at her clothes. She hesitated. “Wait, . . .” Panting, torn, wanting this, but feeling disingenuous.
“Your breathing tells me you want me,” he queried, his eyes feverish with desire. His face was raw and honest; it wasn’t a line.
“It’s just that . . .” She had trouble finding the words, her breath coming in shallow gasps “. . . I’m not just going back tomorrow . . . I’m going back . . . to someone.” She emphasized the “someone”. He stared at her, unfazed, stating the obvious. “You don’t wear a ring.” She rubbed her hand against her head, trying to think of how to explain that it wasn’t about precious metal and stones. He leaned in to kiss her. “Then tell me you don’t want me.” She opened her mouth to speak, but melted into his kiss, her resolve evaporating.
. . . i'd walk into the fingers of your fire willingly and dance the edge of sanity i've never been this close . . .
He kissed her harder, and she whimpered into his mouth. His fingers slid inside of her, and she felt another rush of wetness, as he took her closer to that edge. She fought the sensations, trying to collect her thoughts. He tugged at her jeans again, his breathing ragged. “No . . .” she whispered, half-heartedly, wondering if she said it more to herself than to him. He paused, tugging again and she spoke. “I don’t know . . . I . . . if they come off . . . I won’t stop.” He stared at her, his eyes liquid in the moonlight, his lips full, his body tense. He kissed her again, his hand still on her waistband, waiting. She kissed him back, harder, and this time, when he tugged at her jeans, she reached down to help him.
He moved quickly, laying down the passenger seat, and positioned himself over her, kissing her, whispering, words that made no sense to her. Then reality hit her again, and she was acutely aware of his frame above her, stronger than hers, his breathing anxious, his voice strained by passion. He was poised to enter her, and she had a brief moment of logic and remembering, of guilt and obligation. “Wait . . .”
He was aroused, impatient, but he struggled for control. His voice was raw as he whispered. “Please. It’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to someone like this . . . I want to feel you . . . I want to be inside of you . . . Please . . . Just for a bit . . . Please . . . I want to be close.”
She could hardly breathe and her position was awkward, but the combination of the voice in her heart and the tug in her groin was stronger than logic. She found herself sliding her hips down in the seat, tilting them up to meet his, feeling him solid and warm against her. He pushed against her, his thickness parting her wetness. She opened her mind and her heart for a moment, and then opened herself to him. He pushed into her, exhaling, and she welcomed him. And then, like a weakened dam that’s weathered the last ravages of the flood, she could feel the pressure surge, then break, and she groaned into him, writhing, trying to meld to his body. Once it started, she couldn’t stop it, and she moaned, cursed, cried, as wave after wave took her, this time, and each time after.
. . . as i burn up in your presence and i know now how it feels to be weakened like Achilles with you always at my heels . . .
She gave herself to him, again and again. Sometimes in passion shrouded in harsh words. Sometimes, at his gentle urging . . . “I want to make love to you . . .” His mouth found her mouth, then moved lower, eventually catching the soft, wet flesh between his lips and rolling it in his mouth, causing spasm after spasm. The CD playing cycled over and over, like their personal soundtrack, burning itself into her brain. In a moment of passion, as she rode him to yet another climax, staring down at him, he reached up and held her face. “Listen,” he commanded. She heard the words “. . . when you kiss me like a lover . . .” Found herself singing them under her breath with him, as he pushed up inside of her, watching his face, intense. Deeper inside of her, inside her head, inside her heart. The words tattooed on the memory of this moment.
And finally, her body flushed and aching, her heart exhausted and beating hard against her ribs, she lay against him, listening to his heart, his breathing. Tracing his face, memorizing every line and angle. “Sleep,” he murmured, closing his eyes. Laying his hand on her bare hip, one arm around her body curled in his lap. She smiled, mostly to herself. Not sure if it was the ecstasy, or the simple pleasure of his genuineness. She closed her eyes for a moment, her heart giving into visions of stretching out next to him every night, naked, waking with the room chilled by the morning mountain air, her skin warm where it touched his. Thinking about tracing patterns on his fair skin, the hairs soft on his arms and chest, his hair tousled, his eyes crinkling in a sleepy smile.
When she opened her eyes, she realized the sun was casting its first light in the morning sky. The realization that she was leaving later that day hit, and she roused him. He stretched, kissing her. He fumbled with his clothes; she did the same, quietly, reluctant to talk. His words finally came in a rush. “Please tell me you won’t forget this, forget me, regret this. You can change your mind.” Her heart started breaking, making her quiet, making her pull away, some. “Never say never,” she managed to say, without crying. He kissed her; she kissed him back. “Never say never.” But she couldn’t find more words, couldn’t make promises. It was better this way, she thought.
He looked stunned, innocent. “You’re saying goodbye,” he said, with a mix of incredulity and defeat. She could only smile, gently. If she spoke, she’d sob.
. . . now i see your face before me i would launch a thousand ships to bring your heart back to my island as the sand beneath me slips . . .
Hundreds of miles away, the morning air is cool, like she remembers, but heavier, with a hint of moisture and evergreens, the smell of the city not far behind. Designer heels click on the concrete, her skirt wrapping around her curves and hugging her knees, strands of her necklace clinking together softly in rhythm with her step. She opens the door of the sedan, throws her briefcase in the back seat, pulls her long legs in behind her and slips on sunglasses. The leather is cool against her legs and she turns on the heat. She opens the sunroof for some fresh air, turns on the sound system, and puts the car in gear. She’s concentrating on getting onto the road when the CD sound kicks on, and she’s hit by a wave of memory. Remembering this CD cycling. As if he’d made sure she wouldn’t forget, even here. She’d taken all the CD’s out prior to the trip when she’d taken the car to get it serviced . . . All but this one. She drove in a haze, replaying the sounds, over and over, seeing his face, hearing his voice, tasting his mouth, feeling his body. And when she stepped into the blond wood and glass of her office, overlooking the city, the mountains far away on the horizon, her heart ached for the memory, ached for him, ached for another time. She put her face in her hands and tried to breathe. Remembered him whispering “Breathe . . .,” realizing she was still holding her breath. The words played in her head again. His words. Their words.
… unknowing captor you'll never know how much you pierce my spirit . . .
. . . i am no worse at most in love with your ghost . . .
* Excerpted lyrics to "Ghost" copyright of the Indigo Girls, 1992
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Business
His face showed that he wasn’t expecting her like this, and if he was trying to keep his surprise and his pleasure hidden, his body betrayed him. She stood in the doorway, clad only in a tiny pair of panties and his white button-down dress shirt. He was prepared for his normal nightly routine; her stance said she clearly had an agenda.
The shirt fell away, exposing her right breast as she stood with her hand on one hip. Her dark nipples were hard, and stood out against her pale flesh, casting shadows on her skin in the dim light of the lamp. She moved cat-like, meeting him halfway, and he moved to kiss her. She smiled a wicked, knowing smile, and said “I need”. Not “I need you,” or “I need this” – just “I need.”
He hesitated, coming to a slow realization that she was very different tonight, and rather than kissing her lips, which were already parted with anticipation, he snaked a hand up in the back of her hair, tugging downward. Her head snapped back, exposing her neck, and he bent and kissed it quickly, letting his teeth graze her skin. She shuddered, and arched toward him, her breasts jutting out from the crisp white fabric, brushing his chest. He bit her shoulder in response and she groaned, pressing into him again. So this is how it would be.
He pulled her to the bed and she stretched out, snaking a leg out and underneath his, letting the shirt fall completely away from her torso and off her shoulders. He reached down and peeled her panties off, leaving her in just the shirt, noticing she’d shaved herself, leaving only a thin strip of hair at the juncture of her legs, exposing how swollen she already was. He slid back up, nipping at her collarbone, feeling her squirm beneath him, working his way down to her breasts. She arched her back again, feeding him the soft flesh and the hard nipple, groaning and writhing as he sucked hard. He tugged her hair back, again, kissing her neck hard and she hissed “fuck” in response. He knew he owned her now.
He worked his way down again, covering her breasts again, kissing her stomach, biting the flesh over her hip bones, breathing between her legs but not tasting yet. He watched her, as she waited, and he pushed her legs farther apart. Admiring how pink and slick she looked, the smell heady and tinged with some pent up frustration and desire that she intended to work out here and now. He couldn’t resist biting the inside of her thigh and she moved her hips toward his mouth.
He finally acceded, capturing her swollen clit between his lips, and rolling it around, sucking gently on it, then more firmly. She was vocal; she slid one leg over his back, urging him on, and thrashed her upper body as the feeling mounted. He could feel and taste her getting more aroused, the flesh a silky wetness that he knew would welcome his cock after he took her to that edge a time or two. “Yes,” she hissed again, her teeth clenched, jaw muscles flexing. “Suck on it, sweetie . . . that’s it . . . oh my god, right there.”
Her hand was on the back of his head, pressing him closer and closer, and she’d raised her hips off the bed as she neared her first climax, wanting to keep maximum contact. His jaw ached but he sucked as hard as he could and was rewarded with her primal cry, telling him he’d hit the sweet spot. She murmured incomprehensibly, twisting her head from side to side. It caught her again and again, and each time he thought he’d pause, she was whimpering and moaning and thrashing again, urging him on.
He felt her legs go slack moments later, knowing that she’d gotten some resolution, and he lay back, his mouth exhausted. He smiled up at her, noticing her face looked anything but resolved. She sat up, pushing him flat on his back, her eyes glazed with a far away look. His shirt still hung askew on her as she swung a leg over him, straddling him briefly, until she slammed herself down on his cock. He was hard and ready, but her hip bones jarred his when she hit, and they both grunted; he at the force, she as the tip of his cock hit her inside. She arched back, closing her eyes and ground her clit against his pubic bone, and he reached up to squeeze her breasts, tugging at a nipple. She folded over on top of him, eyes squeezed shut, and put her forehead in the crook of his neck, biting his collarbone as she did.
He didn’t ask where she was in her mind when she did that; he was content that she was physically here. She stayed like that, her face tucked in his shoulder, writhing against him, shuddering when her orgasm would hit, crying out incoherently, and he grabbed her ass, helping her rock against him. Finally, he could feel her tense more, and she rose up, still with her eyes closed, jaw clenched, hissing between her teeth, her pace quickening. He could feel her muscles under his hand twitch and she paused for a second, then began to ride him hard. Her eyes flew open at the last moment, registering him for that brief second before she cried out, and he felt the muscles inside of her flex and squeeze his cock, and he reached up to feel her heartbeat thud against her chest as the red flush spread out against her skin.
She smiled down at him, with a sly look, and gave him a nod that was a signal. He slid out from underneath him, and she crouched on all fours, her head on the pillow, her chest pressed to the bed, her ass raised in the air. He knelt behind her, tracing his hand over her swollen lips, placing his cock at her opening and watching it part the soft flesh. He put both hands on her hips, and she motioned him forward with her hands. He slammed her hard, and her hands clenched the sheets, and she managed to groan “fuck” into the pillow again. Now he rode her, so close to his own release. He murmured “god, I love when you act like whore, so hot, so dirty” and she bucked against him, another orgasm underway.
He couldn’t hold back any more. He pushed the tail of his shirt up over her back, looking at the way her waist tapered and her hips flared and his hands made faint indentations in the soft curves of her ass, vibrating beneath his hands as he pounded her repeatedly. He groaned and thrust one last time, feeling himself flood her, the hot liquid seeping out of her as he stroked to his finish.
He pulled back, still slick with their combined juices, and she rolled to her side, to stare at him. He lay down beside her, and she smiled, and he knew she was back with him, content. But just for good measure, he reached up, pulled her hair back hard, and bit her neck. She closed her eyes briefly and shuddered again.
The shirt fell away, exposing her right breast as she stood with her hand on one hip. Her dark nipples were hard, and stood out against her pale flesh, casting shadows on her skin in the dim light of the lamp. She moved cat-like, meeting him halfway, and he moved to kiss her. She smiled a wicked, knowing smile, and said “I need”. Not “I need you,” or “I need this” – just “I need.”
He hesitated, coming to a slow realization that she was very different tonight, and rather than kissing her lips, which were already parted with anticipation, he snaked a hand up in the back of her hair, tugging downward. Her head snapped back, exposing her neck, and he bent and kissed it quickly, letting his teeth graze her skin. She shuddered, and arched toward him, her breasts jutting out from the crisp white fabric, brushing his chest. He bit her shoulder in response and she groaned, pressing into him again. So this is how it would be.
He pulled her to the bed and she stretched out, snaking a leg out and underneath his, letting the shirt fall completely away from her torso and off her shoulders. He reached down and peeled her panties off, leaving her in just the shirt, noticing she’d shaved herself, leaving only a thin strip of hair at the juncture of her legs, exposing how swollen she already was. He slid back up, nipping at her collarbone, feeling her squirm beneath him, working his way down to her breasts. She arched her back again, feeding him the soft flesh and the hard nipple, groaning and writhing as he sucked hard. He tugged her hair back, again, kissing her neck hard and she hissed “fuck” in response. He knew he owned her now.
He worked his way down again, covering her breasts again, kissing her stomach, biting the flesh over her hip bones, breathing between her legs but not tasting yet. He watched her, as she waited, and he pushed her legs farther apart. Admiring how pink and slick she looked, the smell heady and tinged with some pent up frustration and desire that she intended to work out here and now. He couldn’t resist biting the inside of her thigh and she moved her hips toward his mouth.
He finally acceded, capturing her swollen clit between his lips, and rolling it around, sucking gently on it, then more firmly. She was vocal; she slid one leg over his back, urging him on, and thrashed her upper body as the feeling mounted. He could feel and taste her getting more aroused, the flesh a silky wetness that he knew would welcome his cock after he took her to that edge a time or two. “Yes,” she hissed again, her teeth clenched, jaw muscles flexing. “Suck on it, sweetie . . . that’s it . . . oh my god, right there.”
Her hand was on the back of his head, pressing him closer and closer, and she’d raised her hips off the bed as she neared her first climax, wanting to keep maximum contact. His jaw ached but he sucked as hard as he could and was rewarded with her primal cry, telling him he’d hit the sweet spot. She murmured incomprehensibly, twisting her head from side to side. It caught her again and again, and each time he thought he’d pause, she was whimpering and moaning and thrashing again, urging him on.
He felt her legs go slack moments later, knowing that she’d gotten some resolution, and he lay back, his mouth exhausted. He smiled up at her, noticing her face looked anything but resolved. She sat up, pushing him flat on his back, her eyes glazed with a far away look. His shirt still hung askew on her as she swung a leg over him, straddling him briefly, until she slammed herself down on his cock. He was hard and ready, but her hip bones jarred his when she hit, and they both grunted; he at the force, she as the tip of his cock hit her inside. She arched back, closing her eyes and ground her clit against his pubic bone, and he reached up to squeeze her breasts, tugging at a nipple. She folded over on top of him, eyes squeezed shut, and put her forehead in the crook of his neck, biting his collarbone as she did.
He didn’t ask where she was in her mind when she did that; he was content that she was physically here. She stayed like that, her face tucked in his shoulder, writhing against him, shuddering when her orgasm would hit, crying out incoherently, and he grabbed her ass, helping her rock against him. Finally, he could feel her tense more, and she rose up, still with her eyes closed, jaw clenched, hissing between her teeth, her pace quickening. He could feel her muscles under his hand twitch and she paused for a second, then began to ride him hard. Her eyes flew open at the last moment, registering him for that brief second before she cried out, and he felt the muscles inside of her flex and squeeze his cock, and he reached up to feel her heartbeat thud against her chest as the red flush spread out against her skin.
She smiled down at him, with a sly look, and gave him a nod that was a signal. He slid out from underneath him, and she crouched on all fours, her head on the pillow, her chest pressed to the bed, her ass raised in the air. He knelt behind her, tracing his hand over her swollen lips, placing his cock at her opening and watching it part the soft flesh. He put both hands on her hips, and she motioned him forward with her hands. He slammed her hard, and her hands clenched the sheets, and she managed to groan “fuck” into the pillow again. Now he rode her, so close to his own release. He murmured “god, I love when you act like whore, so hot, so dirty” and she bucked against him, another orgasm underway.
He couldn’t hold back any more. He pushed the tail of his shirt up over her back, looking at the way her waist tapered and her hips flared and his hands made faint indentations in the soft curves of her ass, vibrating beneath his hands as he pounded her repeatedly. He groaned and thrust one last time, feeling himself flood her, the hot liquid seeping out of her as he stroked to his finish.
He pulled back, still slick with their combined juices, and she rolled to her side, to stare at him. He lay down beside her, and she smiled, and he knew she was back with him, content. But just for good measure, he reached up, pulled her hair back hard, and bit her neck. She closed her eyes briefly and shuddered again.
Personal heaven
He smiles and looks like he’s in his own personal heaven. I have a distorted view from between my legs, made more distorted by the raw spasms he creates each time he rolls my clit between his lips. Alternately licking it, then sucking it, moving down to taste my wetness, then up, to capture it in his mouth again. He’s making it hard to focus, to watch, to learn.
He kisses the insides of my thighs, holding my hips in place. I find myself involuntarily moving them anyway, in the direction of the heat of his mouth. Part of me doesn’t want to stop the gentle butterfly kisses on the soft skin of my legs, my ass, the insides of my thighs. Those, too, bring me to a certain edge; heighten the sensitivity of everything else.
He’s drinking me; sucking in every last drop of moisture, then replacing my wetness with moisture from his tongue. His mouth has mapped me, knows my reaction before I do. I can feel it building, predictably, and I’m ready for the surge. He shifts, his mouth still leaving trails of heat and moisture and whispers of air, dancing around my most sensitive parts, and I groan in frustration. His fingers supplement his tongue, now, dipping inside of me, while he rains kisses on the silky, wet skin. His fingers probe deeper, as he sucks my clit, and I moan again, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair. His fingers are pressing downward, creating a pressure inside of me, trying to reach through me; touching those nerves in my ass that seem to be linked directly to my clit. Whether it’s the pressure or the sensation, I find myself closer and closer, thrashing about under his touch and his tongue.
Then his fingers shift, and he presses upwards, toward my stomach. And he reaches a spot that feels like I’ve been electrocuted. It jolts me, and I twist, pulling myself up to a sitting position, almost, as he still has some control over my ability to move. His mouth follows, never letting go of my clit, sucking as hard as he can, and still his fingers probe, high and deep inside of me. Again, a second jolt, jarring my senses. I don’t know whether to climb away, or press myself further onto his fingers. I take the second option, bearing down on his mouth and his fingers, the sensation alternately unbearable and addicting. But what I do doesn’t matter . . . His mouth is relentless, his fingers unforgiving. No matter which direction I twist or move, he moves with me . . .
The eruption inside rocks me, catches me by surprise. As if all the sensation in my body is drawn to one pin point of pleasure, almost painful . . . until the release. Shattering nerves in my brain, in my groin; the heat radiates to the tips of my fingers and toes, comes out of my mouth in an inhuman cry.
Between frantic gasps, still shaky from the aftershocks, I manage a hoarse “What was that? What did you do?”
He smiles, and looks like he’s in his own personal heaven. He shakes his head, starts to crawl up beside me, his cock hard against my leg. He kisses me hard, letting me taste myself on his mouth. He spreads my legs with his knees, and then I know it’s only beginning . . .
He kisses the insides of my thighs, holding my hips in place. I find myself involuntarily moving them anyway, in the direction of the heat of his mouth. Part of me doesn’t want to stop the gentle butterfly kisses on the soft skin of my legs, my ass, the insides of my thighs. Those, too, bring me to a certain edge; heighten the sensitivity of everything else.
He’s drinking me; sucking in every last drop of moisture, then replacing my wetness with moisture from his tongue. His mouth has mapped me, knows my reaction before I do. I can feel it building, predictably, and I’m ready for the surge. He shifts, his mouth still leaving trails of heat and moisture and whispers of air, dancing around my most sensitive parts, and I groan in frustration. His fingers supplement his tongue, now, dipping inside of me, while he rains kisses on the silky, wet skin. His fingers probe deeper, as he sucks my clit, and I moan again, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair. His fingers are pressing downward, creating a pressure inside of me, trying to reach through me; touching those nerves in my ass that seem to be linked directly to my clit. Whether it’s the pressure or the sensation, I find myself closer and closer, thrashing about under his touch and his tongue.
Then his fingers shift, and he presses upwards, toward my stomach. And he reaches a spot that feels like I’ve been electrocuted. It jolts me, and I twist, pulling myself up to a sitting position, almost, as he still has some control over my ability to move. His mouth follows, never letting go of my clit, sucking as hard as he can, and still his fingers probe, high and deep inside of me. Again, a second jolt, jarring my senses. I don’t know whether to climb away, or press myself further onto his fingers. I take the second option, bearing down on his mouth and his fingers, the sensation alternately unbearable and addicting. But what I do doesn’t matter . . . His mouth is relentless, his fingers unforgiving. No matter which direction I twist or move, he moves with me . . .
The eruption inside rocks me, catches me by surprise. As if all the sensation in my body is drawn to one pin point of pleasure, almost painful . . . until the release. Shattering nerves in my brain, in my groin; the heat radiates to the tips of my fingers and toes, comes out of my mouth in an inhuman cry.
Between frantic gasps, still shaky from the aftershocks, I manage a hoarse “What was that? What did you do?”
He smiles, and looks like he’s in his own personal heaven. He shakes his head, starts to crawl up beside me, his cock hard against my leg. He kisses me hard, letting me taste myself on his mouth. He spreads my legs with his knees, and then I know it’s only beginning . . .
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
First
It’s chemistry and biology meets mysticism. The unexplainable. Yet predictable, in its unpredictability.
The moment of recognition. Maybe it’s a request. Maybe a subtle movement. Lowered eyes. Tilt of the head. Lips parting imperceptibly. Except your body perceives every hint. Telegraphs your intent to respond, whether you will it or not. Responds of its own accord, as if magnetized. Its polar opposite buried inside of him, somewhere, pulling at your core. Whispering to you. Insisting. Commanding.
The space closes, until you can feel the heat from his face, radiating, causing small eddies in the air currents left in the dissipating space between your mouths. Tickling your face gently, the air currents seeming to pull you in as well.
Then your lips make contact, his mouth fitting against yours, and you take one last breath, as if you are about to be submerged, and you hold it. And your nerves come alive and you feel the softness of the inside of his lips, inhale the smell of soap and gum and skin, taste his tongue as it flicks against yours, exploring carefully, testing. Hear yourself moan, gasp, sigh quietly into his mouth, breathing his breath with him. Your hand reaches up - to his face, his hair, the soft skin at his neck - anywhere to ground yourself. And you feel the surge in your body, as if electric current had been turned on suddenly, and your chest constricts as the blood rushes between your head and your groin. And you know you should exhale, but it feels like your chest is bound tighter and you inhale again, trying to expand your lungs, until your lungs feel like bursting as his lips slide against yours, his tongue stroking your teeth and your tongue, his mouth accepting you, tasting you, consuming everything you give him in that first moment.
You break only for air, gasping, and he presses his hand against your neck, feeling you pulse race and the thudding of your heart reverberate through your body. He furrows his brow in concern and you realize your face has flushed and your pupils have dilated as your body processes the sensations for the first time. This time. The wonder. The intensity. The unrepeatable.
First kiss.
The moment of recognition. Maybe it’s a request. Maybe a subtle movement. Lowered eyes. Tilt of the head. Lips parting imperceptibly. Except your body perceives every hint. Telegraphs your intent to respond, whether you will it or not. Responds of its own accord, as if magnetized. Its polar opposite buried inside of him, somewhere, pulling at your core. Whispering to you. Insisting. Commanding.
The space closes, until you can feel the heat from his face, radiating, causing small eddies in the air currents left in the dissipating space between your mouths. Tickling your face gently, the air currents seeming to pull you in as well.
Then your lips make contact, his mouth fitting against yours, and you take one last breath, as if you are about to be submerged, and you hold it. And your nerves come alive and you feel the softness of the inside of his lips, inhale the smell of soap and gum and skin, taste his tongue as it flicks against yours, exploring carefully, testing. Hear yourself moan, gasp, sigh quietly into his mouth, breathing his breath with him. Your hand reaches up - to his face, his hair, the soft skin at his neck - anywhere to ground yourself. And you feel the surge in your body, as if electric current had been turned on suddenly, and your chest constricts as the blood rushes between your head and your groin. And you know you should exhale, but it feels like your chest is bound tighter and you inhale again, trying to expand your lungs, until your lungs feel like bursting as his lips slide against yours, his tongue stroking your teeth and your tongue, his mouth accepting you, tasting you, consuming everything you give him in that first moment.
You break only for air, gasping, and he presses his hand against your neck, feeling you pulse race and the thudding of your heart reverberate through your body. He furrows his brow in concern and you realize your face has flushed and your pupils have dilated as your body processes the sensations for the first time. This time. The wonder. The intensity. The unrepeatable.
First kiss.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Dichotomy
He takes my hand; my right hand, in his left.
Mine over his, fingers linked.
A partnership, intertwined, together.
Still our fingers move independently.
You take my hand; my right hand, in your left.
Mine under yours, you cover mine.
Protective, possessive, in control.
Unmoving, gently in your grasp.
He puts an arm around me, loosely.
A link, resting light on my back.
Guiding me, telegraphing movement.
Our strides adjusting to each other.
You put your arm around me, firmly.
Support, wrapped tight around my waist.
A signal, telegraphing intention to others.
My stride slows to yours.
He kisses me, easy and familiar.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling.
Lips melded together, warming me.
Comfortable, like my own skin.
You kiss me, electric and alive.
You hypnotize, your eyes smoldering.
Lips searching, exploring, giving me chills.
Breathtaking, like the first time.
He touches me; fingers tender on my skin.
Tracing old patterns from memory.
Calming, soothing, caressing.
A gentle path to satisfaction.
You touch me; fingers firm on my skin.
Revisiting, and making new.
Searching, probing, insistent.
Pleasing, but leaving me hungry for more.
He tastes me; tongue gentle and inquisitive.
Sweet, concentrated pleasure.
Circling, teasing, tempting.
A preparation for the rest of his attentions.
You taste me; your mouth possessing.
Exploring all, even places untasted.
Consuming, devouring, inhaling me.
A wet, silky explosion of confused nerves.
I am a temple; he enters me with reverence.
His worship scripted, remembered.
Careful, controlled, precision.
Beckoning, coaxing each gentle wave.
I am a wilderness; you enter me bent on conquest.
Your journey savage and unpredictable.
Desperate, dominant, persistent.
Demanding every shudder, every aftershock.
Spent, he lays beside me, stroking my arm.
Watching for approval, satisfaction, release.
He cleans me, restores me, taking away the traces of himself.
Cradling me in the position I chose.
Spent, you lay beside me, stroking my hip.
Absorbing me, smiling at the wet traces of our passion.
Wanting to smell, touch, and taste yourself on me again and again.
You gather me possessively against your chest.
Pleasure and love.
In different forms.
Distinct, unique, individual.
In one way or another,
Both mine.
Mine over his, fingers linked.
A partnership, intertwined, together.
Still our fingers move independently.
You take my hand; my right hand, in your left.
Mine under yours, you cover mine.
Protective, possessive, in control.
Unmoving, gently in your grasp.
He puts an arm around me, loosely.
A link, resting light on my back.
Guiding me, telegraphing movement.
Our strides adjusting to each other.
You put your arm around me, firmly.
Support, wrapped tight around my waist.
A signal, telegraphing intention to others.
My stride slows to yours.
He kisses me, easy and familiar.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling.
Lips melded together, warming me.
Comfortable, like my own skin.
You kiss me, electric and alive.
You hypnotize, your eyes smoldering.
Lips searching, exploring, giving me chills.
Breathtaking, like the first time.
He touches me; fingers tender on my skin.
Tracing old patterns from memory.
Calming, soothing, caressing.
A gentle path to satisfaction.
You touch me; fingers firm on my skin.
Revisiting, and making new.
Searching, probing, insistent.
Pleasing, but leaving me hungry for more.
He tastes me; tongue gentle and inquisitive.
Sweet, concentrated pleasure.
Circling, teasing, tempting.
A preparation for the rest of his attentions.
You taste me; your mouth possessing.
Exploring all, even places untasted.
Consuming, devouring, inhaling me.
A wet, silky explosion of confused nerves.
I am a temple; he enters me with reverence.
His worship scripted, remembered.
Careful, controlled, precision.
Beckoning, coaxing each gentle wave.
I am a wilderness; you enter me bent on conquest.
Your journey savage and unpredictable.
Desperate, dominant, persistent.
Demanding every shudder, every aftershock.
Spent, he lays beside me, stroking my arm.
Watching for approval, satisfaction, release.
He cleans me, restores me, taking away the traces of himself.
Cradling me in the position I chose.
Spent, you lay beside me, stroking my hip.
Absorbing me, smiling at the wet traces of our passion.
Wanting to smell, touch, and taste yourself on me again and again.
You gather me possessively against your chest.
Pleasure and love.
In different forms.
Distinct, unique, individual.
In one way or another,
Both mine.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Testing
It was routine now. Something sparked the conversation. She would drop an innuendo; he would catch it immediately and extend the thought. She always followed the logical extension of that thought, and they would spend the next hour dancing around the fringes of forbidden thoughts in a wordplay that only the two of them could master.
Then the conversation would drift further, and she would become acutely aware of non-verbal cues. The blonde hairs on his arm would tickle her arm as he pointed out key parts of the document. His aftershave would drift to her nose as he read over her shoulder. His blue eyes, lit with some unspoken thoughts, would catch hers in the middle of a discussion; her mouth could continue talking while her mind went elsewhere. All the while, she would feel that tingle low in her groin, and wonder how she would relieve things this night in the privacy of her home.
Then, it would expand to direct contact. Sometimes, the contact came in the form of a casual neck massage. Acceptable social contact, even though she could feel more behind it. Sometimes, it was something silly, like reenacting a dance move, or that childish wrestling you did when you were nine and liked someone. Sometimes, like tonight, it was more of a dare. They would find themselves, standing face to face, daring each other to test the boundaries of personal space, challenging to see if one of them would make the first move. Neither of them ever did. She had a vivid memory of almost . . . a moment of watching is face come closer, seeing his lips part, a flash of teeth, finding her own lips parting almost involuntarily . . . and then both pulling away from it.
So here they stood, now, toe to toe. Her nipples were hard, her breathing irregular, the moisture between her legs unmistakable. She could see the flush on his neck. He was probably hard; she didn’t dare look. He was so close she could feel the heat of his face, smell the mint on his breath, feel him breathe against her. They didn’t touch, but moved, as if they might kiss, their faces moving in, tilting . . . But neither breached that last few centimeters. After what seemed like forever, they pulled apart, reluctantly, both obviously aroused.
One of them would then deliver the next standard line. “We should get going.” And they would pack up in silent frustration, turn off the lights, and head out. They would walk to their cars, stand reluctantly, talk some more, stare at each other, and then he would laughingly say “we could go back in right now.” It was her turn to act like she would take him up on the offer, and then put her things in the car. Then he would say “Really, we could.” Normally, this was her cue to slip behind the wheel of her car, and head out.
Tonight, she decided to test him. She dropped her soft briefcase on the seat, then closed the door, still standing outside the car. She turned and looked meaningfully at him, then walked back toward the office. She didn’t look back, but heard the soft soles of his shoes in the parking lot. “Hey,” he said, catching up with her, touching her arm. She didn’t look back as she fumbled for the key card to the locked building. She scanned the card, and the door unlocked. She held it open and looked back at him, open invitation in her eyes. “Coming?” she asked.
He looked at her, uncertain of how far she would go. He reached out to grab her arm; she let him hold it for a second, then pulled away. Her fingers trailed down his arm deliberately, catching his fingers before she dropped contact, and then she turned to head into the dark recesses of the office. She heard him follow, and she kept her eyes straight ahead on the door to their office suite. She pushed the door open with a soft click, walking further into the room. He was right behind her. She didn‘t look back until he was fully inside, then she turned and quickly shut the door. The lights were off, but the small window to the hall cast light inside.
She stood toe to toe again with him. Same position. Same distance. Although this time, she closed those last few centimeters. Her lips barely touched his; she could feel his part beneath hers. Their tongues reached out in unison, testing each other tentatively, exploring. She didn‘t realize she was holding her breath until it escaped in a hiss between kisses. Her body leaned forward, until it made contact with him. They stepped backwards in slow unison, until his back was against the door itself and she straddled his leg. She could feel his heart hammering away against her chest and his arousal against her hip. As his tongue became braver, challenging her mouth, she pressed her hips into his, and he responded without hesitation. She pulled back for a moment, looking into his liquid blue eyes, letting him see how many times she’d wanted this. They kissed, harder now, his tongue reaching for hers, drawing it into his mouth where she could feel his perfect teeth and taste the gum on his breath. Still kissing, she reached out and caught both of his hands, interlocking her fingers with his. He squeezed her hands hard, powerfully, giving her an indication of the restraint he exercised. She responded by grinding her hips into him more forcefully.
Hard as it was to do, she pulled away. His face was flushed, making his blue eyes luminous, even in the faint light. His chest heaved; his khakis did little to hide his arousal. He watched her as she ran a hand across her neck, down over her breasts, her nipples poking through the fabric of her sweater, across her stomach, and between her legs, pressing her hand against her own arousal. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth as if to speak. She placed her other hand against his mouth, feeling his full lips, parted slightly, moist on the inside of his lips.
She spoke. “We should get going?” It was deliberately formed as a question.
Then the conversation would drift further, and she would become acutely aware of non-verbal cues. The blonde hairs on his arm would tickle her arm as he pointed out key parts of the document. His aftershave would drift to her nose as he read over her shoulder. His blue eyes, lit with some unspoken thoughts, would catch hers in the middle of a discussion; her mouth could continue talking while her mind went elsewhere. All the while, she would feel that tingle low in her groin, and wonder how she would relieve things this night in the privacy of her home.
Then, it would expand to direct contact. Sometimes, the contact came in the form of a casual neck massage. Acceptable social contact, even though she could feel more behind it. Sometimes, it was something silly, like reenacting a dance move, or that childish wrestling you did when you were nine and liked someone. Sometimes, like tonight, it was more of a dare. They would find themselves, standing face to face, daring each other to test the boundaries of personal space, challenging to see if one of them would make the first move. Neither of them ever did. She had a vivid memory of almost . . . a moment of watching is face come closer, seeing his lips part, a flash of teeth, finding her own lips parting almost involuntarily . . . and then both pulling away from it.
So here they stood, now, toe to toe. Her nipples were hard, her breathing irregular, the moisture between her legs unmistakable. She could see the flush on his neck. He was probably hard; she didn’t dare look. He was so close she could feel the heat of his face, smell the mint on his breath, feel him breathe against her. They didn’t touch, but moved, as if they might kiss, their faces moving in, tilting . . . But neither breached that last few centimeters. After what seemed like forever, they pulled apart, reluctantly, both obviously aroused.
One of them would then deliver the next standard line. “We should get going.” And they would pack up in silent frustration, turn off the lights, and head out. They would walk to their cars, stand reluctantly, talk some more, stare at each other, and then he would laughingly say “we could go back in right now.” It was her turn to act like she would take him up on the offer, and then put her things in the car. Then he would say “Really, we could.” Normally, this was her cue to slip behind the wheel of her car, and head out.
Tonight, she decided to test him. She dropped her soft briefcase on the seat, then closed the door, still standing outside the car. She turned and looked meaningfully at him, then walked back toward the office. She didn’t look back, but heard the soft soles of his shoes in the parking lot. “Hey,” he said, catching up with her, touching her arm. She didn’t look back as she fumbled for the key card to the locked building. She scanned the card, and the door unlocked. She held it open and looked back at him, open invitation in her eyes. “Coming?” she asked.
He looked at her, uncertain of how far she would go. He reached out to grab her arm; she let him hold it for a second, then pulled away. Her fingers trailed down his arm deliberately, catching his fingers before she dropped contact, and then she turned to head into the dark recesses of the office. She heard him follow, and she kept her eyes straight ahead on the door to their office suite. She pushed the door open with a soft click, walking further into the room. He was right behind her. She didn‘t look back until he was fully inside, then she turned and quickly shut the door. The lights were off, but the small window to the hall cast light inside.
She stood toe to toe again with him. Same position. Same distance. Although this time, she closed those last few centimeters. Her lips barely touched his; she could feel his part beneath hers. Their tongues reached out in unison, testing each other tentatively, exploring. She didn‘t realize she was holding her breath until it escaped in a hiss between kisses. Her body leaned forward, until it made contact with him. They stepped backwards in slow unison, until his back was against the door itself and she straddled his leg. She could feel his heart hammering away against her chest and his arousal against her hip. As his tongue became braver, challenging her mouth, she pressed her hips into his, and he responded without hesitation. She pulled back for a moment, looking into his liquid blue eyes, letting him see how many times she’d wanted this. They kissed, harder now, his tongue reaching for hers, drawing it into his mouth where she could feel his perfect teeth and taste the gum on his breath. Still kissing, she reached out and caught both of his hands, interlocking her fingers with his. He squeezed her hands hard, powerfully, giving her an indication of the restraint he exercised. She responded by grinding her hips into him more forcefully.
Hard as it was to do, she pulled away. His face was flushed, making his blue eyes luminous, even in the faint light. His chest heaved; his khakis did little to hide his arousal. He watched her as she ran a hand across her neck, down over her breasts, her nipples poking through the fabric of her sweater, across her stomach, and between her legs, pressing her hand against her own arousal. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth as if to speak. She placed her other hand against his mouth, feeling his full lips, parted slightly, moist on the inside of his lips.
She spoke. “We should get going?” It was deliberately formed as a question.
Lunch Hour
11:45. I’m on level D of the parking garage. I’m sure he knows this is it. 11:46. My stomach is in knots. It sounded so good on the phone. But here, now, I’m nervous. The elevator pings, echoing in the concrete structure. My heart stops; I see the familiar mop of hair before anything. His eyes are burning, even in the dim light of the underground structure. He strides to the car, lithe, cat-like. I can feel the tingle, the wetness start now.
He greets me with a small hug, kiss on the cheek. A social gesture to the casual observer, oblivious to the “let’s go” he whispers in my ear. I fumble with the keys, and slide behind the wheel; he slides in the passenger seat, looking at me knowingly. I start the car, and drive, anxious to look at him. Knowing he is staring at me intently. I slide the card over the scanner and wave at the attendant. He chooses that moment to slide his hand up my skirt. My smile falters, but the attendant waves, without noticing.
I pull out into the wet, rainy day, oblivious to things around me. Only conscious of his hand on my thigh. I focus on the traffic, steering with one hand, touching his hand with the other. He pulls his hand away, taking mine with it. Placing it on his erection, warm through his slacks. Another rush of wetness.
Five minutes later, we are parked in a secluded area of the park, no one in sight. He climbs over the seat, into the back of the van. I hike up my skirt, and join him, nervously. “Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving,” I say, and then his mouth crushes mine. Not gentle, not tentative. Too many days and nights thinking about this. Now, here, and the clock ticking. I kiss back, hard, moaning into his mouth. He slides his hand under my sweater, and inside my bra, cupping my breast and pinching my nipple. I gasp, and he forces his tongue further into my mouth.
He reaches up under my skirt, sliding my panties aside, sliding a finger into my wetness, still kissing me. I arch toward him, but he draws his fingers out, tasting me, then kissing me again. I can taste myself on him now. I fumble with his zipper and he lifts his hips for me to slide his pants down. He’s not wearing anything underneath; his erection springs free, daring me to take it in my mouth. I oblige it, and it's his turn to groan, as he leans back in the seat. His one hand is between my legs, his fingers buried inside of me. I can feel his erection expand in my mouth, thinking he is close.
But he pushes me up, his fingers still inside of me. Kissing me again, he pulls me over onto his lap, hiking my skirt up around my hips, his fingers still inside of me. He pulls his fingers free, and I settle on his cock, pausing only a moment. He looks into my eyes, slides his wet fingers into my mouth, and when I take them, sucking on them, he grabs my hips with his other hand and impales me on his cock, jarring me inside. I close my eyes involuntarily, and he groans. When I open my eyes, he is staring at me and I begin to move.
The explosion hits before I know what has happened. I cry out, still staring at him, and he crushes my mouth with a kiss. Silencing me, moaning into my mouth. I can feel him expand inside of me, and he bucks against me. I open my eyes, staring into his, and whisper, “Come with me” and he obeys. His moan is guttural and his hand grip my hips, digging into the flesh. My orgasm rips through me again, and I rock against him, until we both collapse against the seat. I lay against his chest, listening to his heart beat hard, his hair tickling my face.
He reaches up to stroke my hair, and I lift my head. His smile is lazy, and his eyes crinkle, small lines at the corner deepening as his grin spreads. “Lunch tomorrow?”
He greets me with a small hug, kiss on the cheek. A social gesture to the casual observer, oblivious to the “let’s go” he whispers in my ear. I fumble with the keys, and slide behind the wheel; he slides in the passenger seat, looking at me knowingly. I start the car, and drive, anxious to look at him. Knowing he is staring at me intently. I slide the card over the scanner and wave at the attendant. He chooses that moment to slide his hand up my skirt. My smile falters, but the attendant waves, without noticing.
I pull out into the wet, rainy day, oblivious to things around me. Only conscious of his hand on my thigh. I focus on the traffic, steering with one hand, touching his hand with the other. He pulls his hand away, taking mine with it. Placing it on his erection, warm through his slacks. Another rush of wetness.
Five minutes later, we are parked in a secluded area of the park, no one in sight. He climbs over the seat, into the back of the van. I hike up my skirt, and join him, nervously. “Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving,” I say, and then his mouth crushes mine. Not gentle, not tentative. Too many days and nights thinking about this. Now, here, and the clock ticking. I kiss back, hard, moaning into his mouth. He slides his hand under my sweater, and inside my bra, cupping my breast and pinching my nipple. I gasp, and he forces his tongue further into my mouth.
He reaches up under my skirt, sliding my panties aside, sliding a finger into my wetness, still kissing me. I arch toward him, but he draws his fingers out, tasting me, then kissing me again. I can taste myself on him now. I fumble with his zipper and he lifts his hips for me to slide his pants down. He’s not wearing anything underneath; his erection springs free, daring me to take it in my mouth. I oblige it, and it's his turn to groan, as he leans back in the seat. His one hand is between my legs, his fingers buried inside of me. I can feel his erection expand in my mouth, thinking he is close.
But he pushes me up, his fingers still inside of me. Kissing me again, he pulls me over onto his lap, hiking my skirt up around my hips, his fingers still inside of me. He pulls his fingers free, and I settle on his cock, pausing only a moment. He looks into my eyes, slides his wet fingers into my mouth, and when I take them, sucking on them, he grabs my hips with his other hand and impales me on his cock, jarring me inside. I close my eyes involuntarily, and he groans. When I open my eyes, he is staring at me and I begin to move.
The explosion hits before I know what has happened. I cry out, still staring at him, and he crushes my mouth with a kiss. Silencing me, moaning into my mouth. I can feel him expand inside of me, and he bucks against me. I open my eyes, staring into his, and whisper, “Come with me” and he obeys. His moan is guttural and his hand grip my hips, digging into the flesh. My orgasm rips through me again, and I rock against him, until we both collapse against the seat. I lay against his chest, listening to his heart beat hard, his hair tickling my face.
He reaches up to stroke my hair, and I lift my head. His smile is lazy, and his eyes crinkle, small lines at the corner deepening as his grin spreads. “Lunch tomorrow?”
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Vertigo
So close now. It feels like I’m being pushed to the edge of a cliff. About to look over. Experience the vertigo from dizzying heights. Except I want to go. I’m desperate to go. But I can’t go by myself. You need to push me. Higher. Higher we climb.
You’ve been leading me there. Coaxing me. Guiding me. Whispering to me. Talking to me. Leading me with your hand.
Now, you lead with your mouth. Tasting, touching, now hard and insistent . . . Sucking, inhaling. My hands claw at your head. Fingers scraping my own legs. You, pushing me closer, higher, closer. I’ve been here before tonight, many times. But this is the highest you have led me.
I feel the edge before I see it. Looking over, there is nothing below me. My stomach lurches, then I fall. Swept away by a wave that pulls me up, against gravity, then drops me suddenly. My insides feel like they are detached in my body, floating free. My only anchor to reality is your mouth, still hot on my wetness, flesh against flesh. Blood pounds in my ears as I drop, and I reach for you. Your hands catch mine, your mouth tight to me.
My chest feels like it is about to explode, like every tendon in my ribcage struggles to contain me. I expect to hit hard, but instead, feel like I’m swept underwater, peacefully. And when my body floats up, I expect to be gasping for breath. I break the surface tension, and the laughter bubbles forth unexpectedly. Uncontrollable laughter, from deep in my stomach. Relief and release. You look up at me, amused, but puzzled. And I laugh. A deep, satisfied, joyous laugh. Satisfaction in release.
You’ve been leading me there. Coaxing me. Guiding me. Whispering to me. Talking to me. Leading me with your hand.
Now, you lead with your mouth. Tasting, touching, now hard and insistent . . . Sucking, inhaling. My hands claw at your head. Fingers scraping my own legs. You, pushing me closer, higher, closer. I’ve been here before tonight, many times. But this is the highest you have led me.
I feel the edge before I see it. Looking over, there is nothing below me. My stomach lurches, then I fall. Swept away by a wave that pulls me up, against gravity, then drops me suddenly. My insides feel like they are detached in my body, floating free. My only anchor to reality is your mouth, still hot on my wetness, flesh against flesh. Blood pounds in my ears as I drop, and I reach for you. Your hands catch mine, your mouth tight to me.
My chest feels like it is about to explode, like every tendon in my ribcage struggles to contain me. I expect to hit hard, but instead, feel like I’m swept underwater, peacefully. And when my body floats up, I expect to be gasping for breath. I break the surface tension, and the laughter bubbles forth unexpectedly. Uncontrollable laughter, from deep in my stomach. Relief and release. You look up at me, amused, but puzzled. And I laugh. A deep, satisfied, joyous laugh. Satisfaction in release.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Volare
It wasn’t the song that reminded me. Not the music. It was just a name.
Gipsy Kings.
Still, the memories, years old, made cold by all the others that came between, came back in that instant.
The awkward conversation late into the night, our bodies humming with the electricity of that boundary that we hadn’t breached but wanted to. The too-long pause in saying goodnight. I almost walked away; you acted fast and kissed me. Slid a hand around my waist and up under my shirt, while your tongue battled mine.
I pulled away that time. But not the next. Or the next. Drawing a line in the sand, only to have one or both of us erase it each time in the exploration of the next step.
It was always the frenzied kisses that made me feel like you were making love to my mouth. Stolen moments with your hand up my skirt, inside my panties, making me come. Your fingers wound through my hair, your cock in my mouth, groaning as I swallowed you, kissing me afterwards and tasting yourself on my tongue.
We needed liquid courage for the next boundary; the malty taste of your mouth against mine as you slid inside me, thick and hard. Not wanting to stop; dawn found us raw, aching, exhausted, and sweaty.
The stolen moments were always frantic and quick and desperate. In a dark hotel room, the sheets rough against our skin, but private. Straddling you in the car on a dark road, watching for headlights as you buried yourself in me, your fingers digging into my hips while your mouth caught a nipple. You murmuring words into my ear when I collapsed against you, reluctant to break the spell.
Gipsy Kings.
That night, you tried to make it special. Tired of frantic, you led me inside. The space was unfinished. But you laid out a blanket on the floor, amidst the paint cans and tools and construction remnants. Closed the blinds and turned on the light so you could see. Undressed me on the blanket slowly, reveling in the freedom of time and space. You turned on the portable CD player, the Latin guitar sounds masking the street noises. “Bamboleo” the background for your kisses, your fingers, your movements.
The light cast odd shadows on the dark red splotch she’d painted on the wall. She’s testing. Thinking about her space with you. You had your back to it, whether consciously or unconsciously ignoring it. So I closed my eyes and only saw you, smelled you, felt you, heard you. And the Gipsy Kings.
“Nel blu dipinto di blu (Volare)” played in the background as you slid between my legs, staring down at me, buried in my wetness with my legs wrapped around your back. The floor was hard beneath the blanket, as you thrust, but my hips moved to meet yours anyway, and you exploded inside of me, your heart beating like the pulsating, insidious beat of the music. I didn’t understand the lyrics that swirled around us; I understood those three words you said.
Gipsy Kings.
Too many years to count. But the lyrics seem fitting. Then, I was happy to be up there.
Volare, oh oh... (Flying, …)
Cantare, ohohoho... (Singing, ... )
Nel blu dipinto di blu (Blue painted in the blue)
Felice di stare lassù (Happy to be up there)
Gipsy Kings.
Still, the memories, years old, made cold by all the others that came between, came back in that instant.
The awkward conversation late into the night, our bodies humming with the electricity of that boundary that we hadn’t breached but wanted to. The too-long pause in saying goodnight. I almost walked away; you acted fast and kissed me. Slid a hand around my waist and up under my shirt, while your tongue battled mine.
I pulled away that time. But not the next. Or the next. Drawing a line in the sand, only to have one or both of us erase it each time in the exploration of the next step.
It was always the frenzied kisses that made me feel like you were making love to my mouth. Stolen moments with your hand up my skirt, inside my panties, making me come. Your fingers wound through my hair, your cock in my mouth, groaning as I swallowed you, kissing me afterwards and tasting yourself on my tongue.
We needed liquid courage for the next boundary; the malty taste of your mouth against mine as you slid inside me, thick and hard. Not wanting to stop; dawn found us raw, aching, exhausted, and sweaty.
The stolen moments were always frantic and quick and desperate. In a dark hotel room, the sheets rough against our skin, but private. Straddling you in the car on a dark road, watching for headlights as you buried yourself in me, your fingers digging into my hips while your mouth caught a nipple. You murmuring words into my ear when I collapsed against you, reluctant to break the spell.
Gipsy Kings.
That night, you tried to make it special. Tired of frantic, you led me inside. The space was unfinished. But you laid out a blanket on the floor, amidst the paint cans and tools and construction remnants. Closed the blinds and turned on the light so you could see. Undressed me on the blanket slowly, reveling in the freedom of time and space. You turned on the portable CD player, the Latin guitar sounds masking the street noises. “Bamboleo” the background for your kisses, your fingers, your movements.
The light cast odd shadows on the dark red splotch she’d painted on the wall. She’s testing. Thinking about her space with you. You had your back to it, whether consciously or unconsciously ignoring it. So I closed my eyes and only saw you, smelled you, felt you, heard you. And the Gipsy Kings.
“Nel blu dipinto di blu (Volare)” played in the background as you slid between my legs, staring down at me, buried in my wetness with my legs wrapped around your back. The floor was hard beneath the blanket, as you thrust, but my hips moved to meet yours anyway, and you exploded inside of me, your heart beating like the pulsating, insidious beat of the music. I didn’t understand the lyrics that swirled around us; I understood those three words you said.
Gipsy Kings.
Too many years to count. But the lyrics seem fitting. Then, I was happy to be up there.
Volare, oh oh... (Flying, …)
Cantare, ohohoho... (Singing, ... )
Nel blu dipinto di blu (Blue painted in the blue)
Felice di stare lassù (Happy to be up there)
Soon
The tie in the back comes undone easily. Silver laces, crisscrossed across her back, hold taut for a moment, then slither apart at the realization of their release. It’s just enough that the shimmering fabric slips against her body. The laces slip over her shoulders now, and the fabric eases at the top, catching on her breasts for a moment.
The combination of the silky fabric slowly releasing its hold on her body, and the cool air in the room, gives her gooseflesh, making her nipples hard. Catching the fabric and holding it a moment longer, until gravity wins the battle with her nipples and the heavy fabric slithers over her breasts, exposing them. Still not sliding completely off her body, as the zipper, low at her back holds it tight.
She can feel hands, warm and smooth, slip up under her breasts, cupping them, lifting the weight of them slightly before thumbs come up and catch the nipple. She can see the outline of her body reflected in the window panes; her bare breasts almost as silvery in the reflection as her dress. She closes her eyes, savoring the feeling of fingers on her breasts, keeping the nipples taut, hard, flushed a deep rose color. She can almost feel the heat of his mouth, about to cover them, suck them into his mouth, drawing the soft flesh of her breast in too, consuming her.
She reaches behind her to unzip the back of the dress; the weight of the fabric pulls it down in a rush. Gentle rustling, almost tinkling, as the beads and sequins cascade over each other on their way to the silver puddle at her feet. Feeling a little tipsy and unstable with desire, she steps out of the pool of fabric, wearing only the lacy strip of black panties and the silver heels. The heels make her calves flex and her ass sit tighter. She can see that reflection in the mirror too. He loves that line. Worships those curves. Can’t stop himself from running his hand over them each time they are bared before him.
She braces her hands against the dresser, stepping out of the heels. First the right, then the left. Wiggling her painted toes in the carpet. Some color name she couldn’t remember. It made her think of the bright red shade his hand would leave after a spirited slap on her rear as he pounded her, relentless, to his climax. Or hers, if it came first. Which it often did.
She noticed how cool the air in the room was, again, as she felt it tickle against her damp panties, like the breath of a lover. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, until she felt fingers, again, slipping inside her panties. Targeting the hardening bud at the base of the thin strip of hair. Slipping down further, between her wet lips, tracing patterns, opening her gently, then retreating.
Her breathing became ragged. Her body became attuned to the slightest movements, touches, sensations. The hairs on the back of her neck, rising, the sensation of warm breath against her flesh. Fingers still alternating between concentrated pressure on her clit, and gentle exploration of her pussy, spreading the wetness around to the surrounding flesh, inviting more wetness in its wake. Starting to feel the flush in her chest. In her groin. Her hips moving involuntarily against the fingers.
She was silent; only the sound of her breathing. Small gasps. Air forced out between her clenched teeth. He was used to her vocalizing, crying out, moaning . . . now only whispers of air and an occasional sharp intake of breath marked the path of her building ecstasy.
She opened her eyes. Forced herself to look in the mirror. Her own eyes were glazed, wild. Her face flushed, her lips and her nipples the same dark pink. She closed her eyes again. Yes, she could see his face. Eyes burning, dark. Face, concentrating. Jaw clenching. Knowing he was hard; ready to take her in an instant.
Fingers moved furiously now, taking her over that final edge. She felt her body clench, spasm once, then again and again. More rush of wetness. One final gasp, intake of air. And then it all came rushing out, his name the only audible word, followed by a cry and a moan.
Her legs shook. Her shoulders sagged. She caught herself against the dresser, and looked up, one more time. The room was still empty. But his image was still burned in her mind. His name still echoing in her head. His eyes still piercing her heart.
She put a finger to her lip, imagining his on hers. Could taste herself. Just like she could always taste herself on his mouth. She covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Whispered his name again. And one word.
“Soon.”
The combination of the silky fabric slowly releasing its hold on her body, and the cool air in the room, gives her gooseflesh, making her nipples hard. Catching the fabric and holding it a moment longer, until gravity wins the battle with her nipples and the heavy fabric slithers over her breasts, exposing them. Still not sliding completely off her body, as the zipper, low at her back holds it tight.
She can feel hands, warm and smooth, slip up under her breasts, cupping them, lifting the weight of them slightly before thumbs come up and catch the nipple. She can see the outline of her body reflected in the window panes; her bare breasts almost as silvery in the reflection as her dress. She closes her eyes, savoring the feeling of fingers on her breasts, keeping the nipples taut, hard, flushed a deep rose color. She can almost feel the heat of his mouth, about to cover them, suck them into his mouth, drawing the soft flesh of her breast in too, consuming her.
She reaches behind her to unzip the back of the dress; the weight of the fabric pulls it down in a rush. Gentle rustling, almost tinkling, as the beads and sequins cascade over each other on their way to the silver puddle at her feet. Feeling a little tipsy and unstable with desire, she steps out of the pool of fabric, wearing only the lacy strip of black panties and the silver heels. The heels make her calves flex and her ass sit tighter. She can see that reflection in the mirror too. He loves that line. Worships those curves. Can’t stop himself from running his hand over them each time they are bared before him.
She braces her hands against the dresser, stepping out of the heels. First the right, then the left. Wiggling her painted toes in the carpet. Some color name she couldn’t remember. It made her think of the bright red shade his hand would leave after a spirited slap on her rear as he pounded her, relentless, to his climax. Or hers, if it came first. Which it often did.
She noticed how cool the air in the room was, again, as she felt it tickle against her damp panties, like the breath of a lover. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, until she felt fingers, again, slipping inside her panties. Targeting the hardening bud at the base of the thin strip of hair. Slipping down further, between her wet lips, tracing patterns, opening her gently, then retreating.
Her breathing became ragged. Her body became attuned to the slightest movements, touches, sensations. The hairs on the back of her neck, rising, the sensation of warm breath against her flesh. Fingers still alternating between concentrated pressure on her clit, and gentle exploration of her pussy, spreading the wetness around to the surrounding flesh, inviting more wetness in its wake. Starting to feel the flush in her chest. In her groin. Her hips moving involuntarily against the fingers.
She was silent; only the sound of her breathing. Small gasps. Air forced out between her clenched teeth. He was used to her vocalizing, crying out, moaning . . . now only whispers of air and an occasional sharp intake of breath marked the path of her building ecstasy.
She opened her eyes. Forced herself to look in the mirror. Her own eyes were glazed, wild. Her face flushed, her lips and her nipples the same dark pink. She closed her eyes again. Yes, she could see his face. Eyes burning, dark. Face, concentrating. Jaw clenching. Knowing he was hard; ready to take her in an instant.
Fingers moved furiously now, taking her over that final edge. She felt her body clench, spasm once, then again and again. More rush of wetness. One final gasp, intake of air. And then it all came rushing out, his name the only audible word, followed by a cry and a moan.
Her legs shook. Her shoulders sagged. She caught herself against the dresser, and looked up, one more time. The room was still empty. But his image was still burned in her mind. His name still echoing in her head. His eyes still piercing her heart.
She put a finger to her lip, imagining his on hers. Could taste herself. Just like she could always taste herself on his mouth. She covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Whispered his name again. And one word.
“Soon.”
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Missed calls: 0
She woke, realizing by the way the sun came in the room that it was already late in the morning. Exhausted from tossing and turning, the dreams feverish and dark.
The dreams have shadows obscuring the images. A kiss under moonlight. Wet grass tickling her bare toes in her sandals. His smell on her face; his taste in her mouth. Then silence. A faceless woman. Blonde, she thought. Blocking her path.
She lay in the bed, pillows piled around her. Determined to make the day normal. As she thought “normal,” a small knot formed in her stomach. She took a deep breath. Counted to ten. But she couldn’t help but look at the clock. 10:45 a.m. One hour and 15 minutes. Her head did the math quickly.
A week ago, lying in his arms. “I understand,” she’d said. Knowing she couldn’t commit to what he wanted. Needed. Or maybe it was shouldn’t. It seemed like semantics, then. “You know I couldn’t go anyway. She’s a nice girl. Maybe she‘s the one.”
His text came 30 minutes before he was supposed to leave. “Hey baby. Leaving soon. I’ll call when I get home.” She tried to do the math. Drive, ceremony, reception, drive . . .. She purposefully left out other possibilities. Though in the back of her mind she knew it was inevitable.
“I love the way you kiss, baby. So slow. So good.” She’d responded by covering his mouth fiercely then, sucking his tongue into hers, feeling him hard against her leg. His cock twitched, and she could feel the thin, sticky wet droplet on her hip. She groaned into his mouth. Reached down to catch the drop. Brought it to her mouth, tasting it, then letting him taste it on her tongue.
12:15 p.m. She finished her shower. Resisted the urge to check e-mail. Gave in a minute later. Kicked herself a minute later. No messages. She tentatively wrote one to him. Simple. “I think you said you were picking her up at noon. 15 minutes into this and I’m struggling. I thought it would be easier.” Quickly closed the e-mail. Vowing not to check again. Slipped on her heels and checked herself in the mirror before heading out. Her face was still red from his beard.
She felt his fingers slide inside the leg of her panties, touching her wetness. Her gasp was audible; a small moan escaped her mouth as his fingers slid between the soft folds, before plunging inside of her. His hand on the back of her head forced her mouth onto his, crushing her lips against her teeth; his beard scratching her chin, her cheeks, as he kissed her frantically. She writhed against him, bearing down on his fingers as she screamed into his mouth.
2:45 p.m. She got a text. “Having a good time.” She knew he slipped away somewhere to send it. Wanted her to not worry. Which made her worry more. She replied. Light. Witty. She sat biting her thumbnail, looking at her response. “Glad to hear. Will be up late if you want to talk later.” Hoping she didn’t sound desperate, she pressed “send.” She slipped her phone in her pocket.
She rode him in the dim light, back arched, breasts jutting forward, his hands on her hips. For an instant, she had a moment of panic, thinking her phone was still on. Didn’t want the call. It was in the pocket of her jeans, somewhere in the heap of clothes by the bed. His hand reached up, cupping a breast, pinching a nipple, bringing her back. The sensation jolted her back to the naked reality. He thrust up inside her again, and she forgot all about the phone.
She checked her phone again. No messages. No calls. Phantom buzzing in her pocket. 4:15 p.m. She needed something constructive to occupy her time. She slipped on her bikini. Grabbed a blanket and started to head outside to find a warm patch of sun. She was almost out the door when she hesitated and went back inside. She grabbed the phone. Still nothing. She took her blanket, stretched it out in the sun, and lay down, feeling the sun heat her skin, melt her bones, take away the stiffness, the edge. She was asleep in minutes, the phone beside her.
The sun warmed her shoulders, the top of her head. Where her skin met the water, there was a chill. Where her skin met his, it was warm again. She wrapped her legs around his waist, buoyed by the water, kissing the drops of water from his neck. He cupped her ass in his hands, pulling her against his crotch, positioning her so that his cock pressed against her through the fabric of her bikini. She leaned against him as he moved, slightly, pressed against her clit. She shuddered when her release hit, without a sound.
She woke with a start. 6:15 p.m. The sun had shifted; she lay in the shade now. She checked her phone, thinking maybe he called. But the display was empty. No messages. No calls. Empty feeling in her stomach. Maybe it was hunger. She thought about dinner. Gathered her stuff and went inside. Clutching the phone. She checked to make sure the ringer volume was set high enough to hear. Thought about sending a text. Closed the phone; she had her pride, too.
They stood under the heater on the outside patio. The last two customers. The tables and chairs around them were already stacked. They were oblivious to it. He reached his arms around her waist, pulling her close. She could feel it coming. The first kiss. His face warm, his breath tickling hers. His lips grazing hers; she pulled back slightly, to look in his eyes again. Mesmerized by the steely blue. His beard tickled her face as their lips met, parted, tongues searching each other out instantly. Did it last a second? Five? Ten? She lost track of time. Only the feel of his mouth on hers, his body pressed to hers, fingers of the night chill stealing in to touch them now and then.
She watched the movie, half-listening. The vibration in her pocket made her jolt. 9:00 p.m. Her body flush. She discreetly pulled it out. “One new message.” Her heart thudded in her chest. But it wasn’t him. It was just a friend. She replied, mechanically, and put the phone back in her pocket.
They stood. Flushed, aroused. Her mouth, feeling bruised, lips swollen. He held her hand. “If you want, you could go. Or you could come upstairs.” Her heart skipped beats. She should go. Then he leaned in and kissed her again. Full on the mouth. Sharing the air inside of her lungs. A rush of wetness; she groaned, and stepped to the right. Away from the door. He led her by the hand upstairs.
She tidied her room. Tried not to think about the time. 11:23 p.m. Put new sheets on the bed. Moved the phone to the nightstand. Put away some clothes. Wrote an e-mail to a friend. Checks the phone. Laid it beside her. Convincing herself no to worry. She began writing an e-mail to him, but got halfway through it before she erased it. Two hours later, the phone still silent, she laid it on the nightstand again, turned off the light, and buried herself in the pillows. She was tired, emotionally. Her body would catch up soon.
He was poised over her, his eyes watching her, his body tense, and his cock, positioned at her opening. The silky head nestled between the soft, wet flesh, waiting. She held his face, and he locked eyes with her, pressing inside of her. She welcomed him, opening up, feeling him fill her. His eyes never left her face and she whispered “You’re inside of me now.” He responded with a nod, his jaw flexing, and he thrust harder, making her groan. She held him tight as he stroked, taking her to that edge, pulling her heart with him.
She woke, realizing by the way the sun came in the room that it was already late in the morning. Disconcerted and disoriented, she glanced at the time. 10:45 a.m. Her heart sank. Picked up the phone. She flipped open the phone, scrolling down, glancing at the display. Felt nauseous.
“Missed calls: 0”
The dreams have shadows obscuring the images. A kiss under moonlight. Wet grass tickling her bare toes in her sandals. His smell on her face; his taste in her mouth. Then silence. A faceless woman. Blonde, she thought. Blocking her path.
She lay in the bed, pillows piled around her. Determined to make the day normal. As she thought “normal,” a small knot formed in her stomach. She took a deep breath. Counted to ten. But she couldn’t help but look at the clock. 10:45 a.m. One hour and 15 minutes. Her head did the math quickly.
A week ago, lying in his arms. “I understand,” she’d said. Knowing she couldn’t commit to what he wanted. Needed. Or maybe it was shouldn’t. It seemed like semantics, then. “You know I couldn’t go anyway. She’s a nice girl. Maybe she‘s the one.”
His text came 30 minutes before he was supposed to leave. “Hey baby. Leaving soon. I’ll call when I get home.” She tried to do the math. Drive, ceremony, reception, drive . . .. She purposefully left out other possibilities. Though in the back of her mind she knew it was inevitable.
“I love the way you kiss, baby. So slow. So good.” She’d responded by covering his mouth fiercely then, sucking his tongue into hers, feeling him hard against her leg. His cock twitched, and she could feel the thin, sticky wet droplet on her hip. She groaned into his mouth. Reached down to catch the drop. Brought it to her mouth, tasting it, then letting him taste it on her tongue.
12:15 p.m. She finished her shower. Resisted the urge to check e-mail. Gave in a minute later. Kicked herself a minute later. No messages. She tentatively wrote one to him. Simple. “I think you said you were picking her up at noon. 15 minutes into this and I’m struggling. I thought it would be easier.” Quickly closed the e-mail. Vowing not to check again. Slipped on her heels and checked herself in the mirror before heading out. Her face was still red from his beard.
She felt his fingers slide inside the leg of her panties, touching her wetness. Her gasp was audible; a small moan escaped her mouth as his fingers slid between the soft folds, before plunging inside of her. His hand on the back of her head forced her mouth onto his, crushing her lips against her teeth; his beard scratching her chin, her cheeks, as he kissed her frantically. She writhed against him, bearing down on his fingers as she screamed into his mouth.
2:45 p.m. She got a text. “Having a good time.” She knew he slipped away somewhere to send it. Wanted her to not worry. Which made her worry more. She replied. Light. Witty. She sat biting her thumbnail, looking at her response. “Glad to hear. Will be up late if you want to talk later.” Hoping she didn’t sound desperate, she pressed “send.” She slipped her phone in her pocket.
She rode him in the dim light, back arched, breasts jutting forward, his hands on her hips. For an instant, she had a moment of panic, thinking her phone was still on. Didn’t want the call. It was in the pocket of her jeans, somewhere in the heap of clothes by the bed. His hand reached up, cupping a breast, pinching a nipple, bringing her back. The sensation jolted her back to the naked reality. He thrust up inside her again, and she forgot all about the phone.
She checked her phone again. No messages. No calls. Phantom buzzing in her pocket. 4:15 p.m. She needed something constructive to occupy her time. She slipped on her bikini. Grabbed a blanket and started to head outside to find a warm patch of sun. She was almost out the door when she hesitated and went back inside. She grabbed the phone. Still nothing. She took her blanket, stretched it out in the sun, and lay down, feeling the sun heat her skin, melt her bones, take away the stiffness, the edge. She was asleep in minutes, the phone beside her.
The sun warmed her shoulders, the top of her head. Where her skin met the water, there was a chill. Where her skin met his, it was warm again. She wrapped her legs around his waist, buoyed by the water, kissing the drops of water from his neck. He cupped her ass in his hands, pulling her against his crotch, positioning her so that his cock pressed against her through the fabric of her bikini. She leaned against him as he moved, slightly, pressed against her clit. She shuddered when her release hit, without a sound.
She woke with a start. 6:15 p.m. The sun had shifted; she lay in the shade now. She checked her phone, thinking maybe he called. But the display was empty. No messages. No calls. Empty feeling in her stomach. Maybe it was hunger. She thought about dinner. Gathered her stuff and went inside. Clutching the phone. She checked to make sure the ringer volume was set high enough to hear. Thought about sending a text. Closed the phone; she had her pride, too.
They stood under the heater on the outside patio. The last two customers. The tables and chairs around them were already stacked. They were oblivious to it. He reached his arms around her waist, pulling her close. She could feel it coming. The first kiss. His face warm, his breath tickling hers. His lips grazing hers; she pulled back slightly, to look in his eyes again. Mesmerized by the steely blue. His beard tickled her face as their lips met, parted, tongues searching each other out instantly. Did it last a second? Five? Ten? She lost track of time. Only the feel of his mouth on hers, his body pressed to hers, fingers of the night chill stealing in to touch them now and then.
She watched the movie, half-listening. The vibration in her pocket made her jolt. 9:00 p.m. Her body flush. She discreetly pulled it out. “One new message.” Her heart thudded in her chest. But it wasn’t him. It was just a friend. She replied, mechanically, and put the phone back in her pocket.
They stood. Flushed, aroused. Her mouth, feeling bruised, lips swollen. He held her hand. “If you want, you could go. Or you could come upstairs.” Her heart skipped beats. She should go. Then he leaned in and kissed her again. Full on the mouth. Sharing the air inside of her lungs. A rush of wetness; she groaned, and stepped to the right. Away from the door. He led her by the hand upstairs.
She tidied her room. Tried not to think about the time. 11:23 p.m. Put new sheets on the bed. Moved the phone to the nightstand. Put away some clothes. Wrote an e-mail to a friend. Checks the phone. Laid it beside her. Convincing herself no to worry. She began writing an e-mail to him, but got halfway through it before she erased it. Two hours later, the phone still silent, she laid it on the nightstand again, turned off the light, and buried herself in the pillows. She was tired, emotionally. Her body would catch up soon.
He was poised over her, his eyes watching her, his body tense, and his cock, positioned at her opening. The silky head nestled between the soft, wet flesh, waiting. She held his face, and he locked eyes with her, pressing inside of her. She welcomed him, opening up, feeling him fill her. His eyes never left her face and she whispered “You’re inside of me now.” He responded with a nod, his jaw flexing, and he thrust harder, making her groan. She held him tight as he stroked, taking her to that edge, pulling her heart with him.
She woke, realizing by the way the sun came in the room that it was already late in the morning. Disconcerted and disoriented, she glanced at the time. 10:45 a.m. Her heart sank. Picked up the phone. She flipped open the phone, scrolling down, glancing at the display. Felt nauseous.
“Missed calls: 0”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Stranger
The street is wet. The cab drives away. It’s the wrong place. An unfamiliar place. She should have made it wait. But it’s late.
She starts walking toward light. She’s out of place and people know that. She keeps walking, trying to remain calm. A car slows. She hears conversation, foreign. But the tone is clear. She walks faster. More deliberate. The car follows, slowly. Laughter. Taunting. She feels fear and uncertainty. Wants to run.
She doesn’t run away, though. She feels the rage, born out of fear. She turns toward the car. Runs at it. Screaming. Primal. The occupants momentarily confused. They drive on.
She’s left shaking. Wet in the rain. Her reflection in a broken store window shows her dress clinging to her, her hair plastered to her head. Tears of fear and relief mix with rain. She turns away, heading toward more light.
He’s watching her from the kiosk on the street. Behind the cigarettes and the gum, newspapers and drinks. He motions for her, points to the awning. She is still shaking. She stands, while a small stream of customers filter past. He is young. Jet black curls, that reflect the lights from his kiosk. Dark, five o’clock shadow. Brilliant white teeth. Broad shoulders, lean body. Worn jeans.
He speaks sounds she doesn’t recognize to most customers. His voice smooths the edges of the words, softens them. He shakes a hand. Hugs an old woman. High-fives the small boy, tousling his hair. Each customer like a family member.
He offers her something. She shakes her head. He holds up a finger. Makes a call on his cell phone. An old man appears from around the corner. He hugs the old man. Kisses his cheeks. Speaks in low tones, motioning to her. The old man smiled, pats both of his cheeks. Steps behind the register and waves the young man away.
He grabs an umbrella and motions for her to walk with him. Not knowing why she trusts him, she follows, stepping under the umbrella and walking close to him. Feeling warmth radiate from his arms. They exchange names. Pleasantries. The walk is short.
He stops in front of a building. European style hotel. She doesn’t recognize the name. Arabic characters. He kisses a petite, older woman at the desk. The small lobby is filled with people chatting. Smoking. Drinking coffee. He greets them all with smiles and hugs. Motions for her to follow him. They all stare at her matted hair, her clothes plastered to her body. Trusting, she follows him down a hall.
He pulls out a key and opens the door, inviting her in. Hotel bed, hotel desk, hotel chairs. But larger than a hotel room. A part of the room filled with tools and light bulbs and spare parts. He goes to a closet and pulls out a white robe. Goes to the bathroom and brings out large, white towels and hands them to her. She stands, uncertain what to do. He smiles at her, grabs a tool belt and promises to return.
She peels off the wet clothes. Drapes them over the shower rod. Wraps herself in a robe. Wraps a towel around her head. Wanders around this stranger’s room. Family pictures from someplace far away. Picture of him with a pretty, dark-haired young woman, his arm wrapped around her. Engineering textbooks. Notebooks filled with equations. A worn laptop computer. A small coffee maker.
The door opens and he returns, stripping off the tool belt. She feels self conscious. Very aware of the surreal events of the evening. Realizes she’s standing wrapped only in a robe in a stranger’s room. She remembers the car. Strangers taunting her.
She starts to shake again, maybe from the cold, maybe not. The tears come too. He crosses the room quickly. Takes her by the shoulders. His brown eyes are warm, concerned. She is confused and embarrassed. She wipes her eyes. The towel slips from her head, and he catches it. Leads her to the bed, sitting her down, gently. Walks away, returning with a hair brush.
He sits behind her and brushes the wet tangles carefully. It is strange and soothing. He points to the picture of the dark-haired woman. His sister, he explains, holding up the hair brush. She laughs, relaxing some.
She can feel his warm fingers touch her neck as he works at the tangles, and it makes her skin tingle. Her breathing becomes slower more shallow, and her neck muscles relax more. She senses his brush strokes becoming slower, too. She turns and realizes he is watching her, and it makes her pulse quicken. He reaches a hand out to brush a wet strand off her face, his fingers tracing her cheek in doing so. Her lips part involuntarily, and he leans forward to kiss her at that moment, breathing in the air that escapes from between her lips.
His mouth is soft and warm; inquisitive, gentle. She is trembling again, but not from fear, or cold. He leans her back on the bed, slowly, kissing her all the way down. Her hands reach up, her fingers winding through the dark, thick curls at the back of his neck. He lays next to her, touching her face and neck, watching her eyes for a sign. She feels bold; she reaches up and grabs his hand. Kisses his palm. Moves his hand to the tie on her robe. Her heart races.
He unwraps her like a present. Peeling the white terry off her skin in slow measure, exposing inch after inch of creamy bare skin. The gooseflesh rises on her arms, her nipples harden as he slides back the fabric. His fingers skim over her body, following each curve with patience and reverence, like she’s a delicate sculpture. His mouth trails kisses down her body and he unwraps her, warming the chill on her flesh for a moment, then leaving shivers in his wake. She can feel his own breathing become irregular.
He stops at her waist and looks up at her, wanting confirmation. She nods, and he uncovers the last of her flesh, touching her stomach, letting his hand trail further down into her dampness. She arches her back to meet his hand, then his mouth. Cries out when his tongue flicks the most sensitive spot, and feels him groan against her as he presses his mouth to her. Drinking her. She explodes, writhing beneath his mouth. He pauses, his lips flushed, his eyes like molten chocolate. Strips off his shirt. His jeans. His low briefs. He is olive-skinned perfection, dark, soft hairs on his body, gentle muscles on his lean frame flexing with each movement. He lays next to her, and she feels his body radiating heat. Feels him hard against her leg.
She tugs at his arm, guiding him on to her, and he positions himself above her, his shoulders flexing. She kisses him, sliding her legs apart, shifting her hips, welcoming him. His breathing is ragged now, like hers, and he pushes inside of her. Slowly, deliberately, meeting only slight resistance before her body swallows him in warmth and wetness. His strokes are gentle, controlled, in comparison to her thrashing and writhing beneath him. He whispers words she doesn’t understand. She can barely hear them for the blood pounding in her ears. She can feel the pressure building again, and she cries out, begging him to come with her. He hears, responds, the strange words coming faster and more guttural. Words of passion and release. She feels him tense, work harder to control, but even as he peaks, burying himself inside of her, holding her hips tightly to him as he pulses, he is whispering to her, soothing her, calming her, loving her.
Beautiful stranger.
She starts walking toward light. She’s out of place and people know that. She keeps walking, trying to remain calm. A car slows. She hears conversation, foreign. But the tone is clear. She walks faster. More deliberate. The car follows, slowly. Laughter. Taunting. She feels fear and uncertainty. Wants to run.
She doesn’t run away, though. She feels the rage, born out of fear. She turns toward the car. Runs at it. Screaming. Primal. The occupants momentarily confused. They drive on.
She’s left shaking. Wet in the rain. Her reflection in a broken store window shows her dress clinging to her, her hair plastered to her head. Tears of fear and relief mix with rain. She turns away, heading toward more light.
He’s watching her from the kiosk on the street. Behind the cigarettes and the gum, newspapers and drinks. He motions for her, points to the awning. She is still shaking. She stands, while a small stream of customers filter past. He is young. Jet black curls, that reflect the lights from his kiosk. Dark, five o’clock shadow. Brilliant white teeth. Broad shoulders, lean body. Worn jeans.
He speaks sounds she doesn’t recognize to most customers. His voice smooths the edges of the words, softens them. He shakes a hand. Hugs an old woman. High-fives the small boy, tousling his hair. Each customer like a family member.
He offers her something. She shakes her head. He holds up a finger. Makes a call on his cell phone. An old man appears from around the corner. He hugs the old man. Kisses his cheeks. Speaks in low tones, motioning to her. The old man smiled, pats both of his cheeks. Steps behind the register and waves the young man away.
He grabs an umbrella and motions for her to walk with him. Not knowing why she trusts him, she follows, stepping under the umbrella and walking close to him. Feeling warmth radiate from his arms. They exchange names. Pleasantries. The walk is short.
He stops in front of a building. European style hotel. She doesn’t recognize the name. Arabic characters. He kisses a petite, older woman at the desk. The small lobby is filled with people chatting. Smoking. Drinking coffee. He greets them all with smiles and hugs. Motions for her to follow him. They all stare at her matted hair, her clothes plastered to her body. Trusting, she follows him down a hall.
He pulls out a key and opens the door, inviting her in. Hotel bed, hotel desk, hotel chairs. But larger than a hotel room. A part of the room filled with tools and light bulbs and spare parts. He goes to a closet and pulls out a white robe. Goes to the bathroom and brings out large, white towels and hands them to her. She stands, uncertain what to do. He smiles at her, grabs a tool belt and promises to return.
She peels off the wet clothes. Drapes them over the shower rod. Wraps herself in a robe. Wraps a towel around her head. Wanders around this stranger’s room. Family pictures from someplace far away. Picture of him with a pretty, dark-haired young woman, his arm wrapped around her. Engineering textbooks. Notebooks filled with equations. A worn laptop computer. A small coffee maker.
The door opens and he returns, stripping off the tool belt. She feels self conscious. Very aware of the surreal events of the evening. Realizes she’s standing wrapped only in a robe in a stranger’s room. She remembers the car. Strangers taunting her.
She starts to shake again, maybe from the cold, maybe not. The tears come too. He crosses the room quickly. Takes her by the shoulders. His brown eyes are warm, concerned. She is confused and embarrassed. She wipes her eyes. The towel slips from her head, and he catches it. Leads her to the bed, sitting her down, gently. Walks away, returning with a hair brush.
He sits behind her and brushes the wet tangles carefully. It is strange and soothing. He points to the picture of the dark-haired woman. His sister, he explains, holding up the hair brush. She laughs, relaxing some.
She can feel his warm fingers touch her neck as he works at the tangles, and it makes her skin tingle. Her breathing becomes slower more shallow, and her neck muscles relax more. She senses his brush strokes becoming slower, too. She turns and realizes he is watching her, and it makes her pulse quicken. He reaches a hand out to brush a wet strand off her face, his fingers tracing her cheek in doing so. Her lips part involuntarily, and he leans forward to kiss her at that moment, breathing in the air that escapes from between her lips.
His mouth is soft and warm; inquisitive, gentle. She is trembling again, but not from fear, or cold. He leans her back on the bed, slowly, kissing her all the way down. Her hands reach up, her fingers winding through the dark, thick curls at the back of his neck. He lays next to her, touching her face and neck, watching her eyes for a sign. She feels bold; she reaches up and grabs his hand. Kisses his palm. Moves his hand to the tie on her robe. Her heart races.
He unwraps her like a present. Peeling the white terry off her skin in slow measure, exposing inch after inch of creamy bare skin. The gooseflesh rises on her arms, her nipples harden as he slides back the fabric. His fingers skim over her body, following each curve with patience and reverence, like she’s a delicate sculpture. His mouth trails kisses down her body and he unwraps her, warming the chill on her flesh for a moment, then leaving shivers in his wake. She can feel his own breathing become irregular.
He stops at her waist and looks up at her, wanting confirmation. She nods, and he uncovers the last of her flesh, touching her stomach, letting his hand trail further down into her dampness. She arches her back to meet his hand, then his mouth. Cries out when his tongue flicks the most sensitive spot, and feels him groan against her as he presses his mouth to her. Drinking her. She explodes, writhing beneath his mouth. He pauses, his lips flushed, his eyes like molten chocolate. Strips off his shirt. His jeans. His low briefs. He is olive-skinned perfection, dark, soft hairs on his body, gentle muscles on his lean frame flexing with each movement. He lays next to her, and she feels his body radiating heat. Feels him hard against her leg.
She tugs at his arm, guiding him on to her, and he positions himself above her, his shoulders flexing. She kisses him, sliding her legs apart, shifting her hips, welcoming him. His breathing is ragged now, like hers, and he pushes inside of her. Slowly, deliberately, meeting only slight resistance before her body swallows him in warmth and wetness. His strokes are gentle, controlled, in comparison to her thrashing and writhing beneath him. He whispers words she doesn’t understand. She can barely hear them for the blood pounding in her ears. She can feel the pressure building again, and she cries out, begging him to come with her. He hears, responds, the strange words coming faster and more guttural. Words of passion and release. She feels him tense, work harder to control, but even as he peaks, burying himself inside of her, holding her hips tightly to him as he pulses, he is whispering to her, soothing her, calming her, loving her.
Beautiful stranger.
Wound
The red on my cheeks from your stubble,
so bright in the sunlight the next morning;
now blended in.
My lips, once raw on the inside, salt and blood,
as you pressed them hard into my teeth;
now smooth and healed.
Fingernail marks, my own, pressed into my hands
as you held my fists tight as I came;
now vanished.
Teeth marks on my shoulder, your passion marked
in a crude semi-circle, red on white flesh;
now faded.
The bruise on the inside of my thigh, small and dark,
from your fingers, pressed into my soft flesh;
now just a pale yellow.
The handprint on the rounded edge of my backside,
splayed fingers evident in strips of pink and white;
now just a memory.
The tender flesh between my legs, once swollen
and flushed from your hard insistence;
now just a dull ache.
So why, if my body heals so quickly, obliterates
the repeated assaults of our passion;
Why does it feel like the same wound on my heart
bleeds a little, each time you are near?
so bright in the sunlight the next morning;
now blended in.
My lips, once raw on the inside, salt and blood,
as you pressed them hard into my teeth;
now smooth and healed.
Fingernail marks, my own, pressed into my hands
as you held my fists tight as I came;
now vanished.
Teeth marks on my shoulder, your passion marked
in a crude semi-circle, red on white flesh;
now faded.
The bruise on the inside of my thigh, small and dark,
from your fingers, pressed into my soft flesh;
now just a pale yellow.
The handprint on the rounded edge of my backside,
splayed fingers evident in strips of pink and white;
now just a memory.
The tender flesh between my legs, once swollen
and flushed from your hard insistence;
now just a dull ache.
So why, if my body heals so quickly, obliterates
the repeated assaults of our passion;
Why does it feel like the same wound on my heart
bleeds a little, each time you are near?
Welcome
To the world, I am Any Woman. Wife, girlfriend, lover, stranger. Mother, daughter, sister, cousin. Friend, enemy, co-worker, boss. Teacher, accountant, nurse, lawyer.
In my mind, I am . . .
Hedonistic.
Erotic.
Raw.
I am Subconscious.
In my mind, I am . . .
Hedonistic.
Erotic.
Raw.
I am Subconscious.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)