© Copyright 2003
The heat outside swelters, enough to bake the skin. It's empty inside me, empty as the silent streets. Everyone is hiding from the sun. For a Monday, it is mockingly sunny. My thoughts keep drifting from one thing to the next, wishing I could focus on just one solid thought but every time something comes up, I'm too scared to delve so I keep running. Exactly one week now. Exactly one week since I learnt how it really feels to lose someone precious. Nothing changes and everything goes on. You have to, too. Somehow.
I'm vaguely conscious of your presence. It does not fill my head like it's supposed to. The fire's been reduced to a spark that needs to be fanned. Even when I look up into your dark eyes, it's a struggle to recognise the passion, compassion and primal lust in them. I miss your eyes. I miss your gaze. It gives me my worth, and I need to feel worthy today more than ever.
Shutting my eyes, I shift slightly in my bonds. The cloth that binds my wrists to the old metal bed-frame does not hurt. It does not even restrict my movements or hold me firmly in place. Yet, there is no desire to escape or fight. Perhaps it is the dense humidity. Perhaps it is the emptiness inside that numbs the senses you're trying to awaken. Perhaps I just never want to run from you. I belong with you, to you.
You sit on the bed, beside me, drinking in my spread form. For a moment, you can't decide to touch, taste or just hold me. So you just watch the subtle and steady rise and fall of my chest. My body covered by a thin film of sweat, glistens under the steady streams of sunlight through the window. Even with eyes shut so tight, the raw power of your gaze courses through me, momentarily anchoring all thoughts. This is how a God beholds his queen.
You dip your index fingertip into the glass of cold water on the side table. Hundreds of condensed droplets of water turn into rivulets on the surface of the glass, the water evaporating too quickly from the small puddle below. The wet fingertip runs over my lips, barely moistening them. Drawing a line down over my chin to my neck, you wet your finger again. It teases around and about, coming to rest between my breasts. A soft moan escapes my lips as you lean forward, your wet tongue circling the honey-coloured, firm flesh. The tip of your tongue flicks over my small brown nipple and presses into it as it hardens.
Your hand slides across my stomach, brushing over my pussy mound, slipping between parted thighs. The sweat makes every movement fluid. Our warm skin in contact halts all other fleeting bits in my mind, slowly becoming aware and attuned only to you. In my desire for you, I burn at the right temperature to walk through the fire.
Thick, rough fingers run over my pussy lips with surprising gentleness, easing up and down, massaging the flesh. The pleasure makes the head swim, the intensity - confusing. Your thumb slips into the top of my slit, sliding over the warm and pulsing pink inside as your mouth works on my other breast. The rest of your hand covers my pussy, cupping it. It makes me feel safe. The week taught harsh lessons I tried to run away from all along. Having to deal with it made me feel lost. But you pull me back into your care, into your warm arms, into our safe world.
.... There is more of this story ...