My eyes flicker open. Blurred, hazy shapes and shadows fill my sight. No need to glance to the green glow beside me, time is irrelevant when it is the dead of night. I am curled away from him in my natural sleeping pose, but as ever I find that smallest part of a toe still has found a connection with his own foot. Even when unconscious, it seems, I must have that tangible knowledge that he is there.
The sound of the world outside is stillness and sighs – the wind brushes against the pane. I hear the Summer leaves drift and sway on the branches. Serene and peaceful much like his breathing next to me. He too is facing away, on his side curled. We are a distorted mirror image of one another, echoed sleeping positions but his grand frame dwarfs mine.
I gently shift, twisting in the linen. Now it is with great care and with softness. A few hours ago I twisted in the sheets out of desperation and desire. Uncontrollable and a mess of hair, nails and moans. Then I had been careless, lashed out with fire at him for what he was doing to me. He had me pinned. His head was locked between my legs. He was drunk on his own passion. Immovable until he had his fill of me.
Trying to make out his features in the semi-darkness at this moment I have to concentrate just that second or two more. There is that little dip where his waist curves out into his hip ever so slightly. I creep a hand under the duvet, not wanting to disturb him. Shifting slightly nearer, my hand makes it to that dip, rests there. It is a fraction of a degree cooler than the rest of his body as I soon find out. You see, once my hands begin their journey over his skin it is nigh impossible to cease. He is so tactile. I slide my fingers down over his hip, round the curve of his behind and lay them to rest on his firm thighs. Hand pressed to his flank I complete my move to now press myself into his body. My nose is against the point where his shoulder blades meet and, like an addict, I take my fill of his subtly intoxicating scent.
As I come down from my small high, head filled with bliss, it is his chance to shift. In his slumber or whether he had been awake all along, I do not know. But my hand is now removed from his side by his own, engulfing it in his loose grasp to be clutched to his chest. My heart swells and I soon drift back into my reveries.
Sweet dreams.
That is a small high… but a good one.
A meaningful one, too.
LP x
The language used in this piece is that of someone who clearly has given their entire being to the other person described. I find this emotional, passionate and stirring. Amazing writing from what can only be described as the pinnacle of what I hold most prominent in my list of attributes for a very special woman.
You compliment too far, Roger.
(But I will still accept it!)
I very much enjoyed writing this piece. Sign of a good post is when I feel not only my cheeks flush as I type, but also the eyes glinting in the memories being put into my snapshot images.
Once again, your words take my breath away,
LP x
That was like poetry to read; I expect that’s rather what it feels like to be there too
I’m trying to focus my rather chaotic thoughts into something that makes sense and actually expresses something here, so bear with me, but first of all, what a wonderful post!
I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve been thinking about it anyway today but it does give me rather a Lost Girls vibe, particularly its more dreamlike opium-infused sequences. And when I learned what the “merry wanderer” was from, it seemed to fit your post perfectly, fay and eerie.
Not only dreamlike though but also very sort of closed in and focused. It’s got a sort of dark warmth to it that makes it seem like nothing else exists outside of what you’re describing. That gives it a very intimate feel. The intimacy plus the way you’ve evoked all the sense in your description really makes it rather erotic, especially for how softcore it actually is.
But I’m rambling now. Apologies if that was all bollocks and poncy sounding, just finding it hard to express how this post makes me feel.