| In Service to His Skin "Meet me in the bed," he said same as many times before. He promised nothing, he never did. But she followed anyway like she always did cursing fate and just plain cursing, wanting more. At first if felt like duty to her; to him it felt like sin: her hands and nails unrestrained in service to his skin. When he voiced his simple enjoyment the pressure of adequacy fell off. Her pleasure awoke unexpectedly aroused by the need to touch. Some people like to be kissed and caressed but this one lightly scored. She scratched how he directed with his groans and incoherent words. He'd been hiding something; soon he said, "go lower." He was waiting, writhing, vulnerable, and she did but slower. Over the lightly spinkled chest hairs and those that follow down, exposed to the cold. She knew what she would find, nearly breathless to just to touch and enfold. First with her palm which couldn't quite close; lips and tongue lapped his sweetness; he did not oppose. The wetness, tightness, tingling centered between thighs. Legs stretched and feet flexed oppositionally as his body breathed sighs. Her being caught on fire; she took him as she wanted him. There on his back when she threw a leg over he was pinned and he gave in. "Shut your eyes, she commanded, "just fantasize," driving steadily to their ending. For once he didn't have to (though he still wouldn't touch her) to their disconnected bodies blending. When it was over, they cleaned themselves up and washed away every trace. As they fell asleep he turned his back. She knew it was the last time she'd see his face. PamEhli/2003 |
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