Prologue
Something Old
Antique handed down from generation to generation. Seeing the pride in the older woman’s face, as she held the family heirloom up against her throat, had she succeeded in masking her disappointment? She didn’t have to say anything, for I could see it in her eyes as she smoothed over their rough creamy imperfections with her fingertips. ‘Just a silly superstition’, I said as I took them from her and pulled her close, letting their pastel highlights dance in the apple of my eye as I fondled her lace covered breast. She pulled away, tsking at my ‘inability to focus’ and continuing with her train of thought. For they were most certainly beautiful and fit for a fine occasion, ‘just not this one’. She had sighed, then left me alone in the room to contemplate the omens bad: The pearls I now held in my palm like the handful of tears, it was said (they represented) I her husband would make her cry on our wedding day; and the dark purple chocolate scented bearded iris arranged amongst the fragrant lilium milk trumpets of her ‘funeral’ bouquet, that I simply hadn’t had the heart to decline, so touched by the sweet gesture in the attention to detail of one of her favourite blooms, to insist on a less symbolic and superstitious flower (‘not associated with the purity of rebirth after death’), like she had with my favourite, the fittingly jealous yellow tea rose.
Something New
Heavy off-white silk wrapped around an embroidered floral bodice of lace beads and wax and a replica of Berta Alkalaj’s wedding dress worn by Danica Paligoric in 1911. An exquisite dress that he had known would make me feel like royalty. And although it is more common for the bride (in his culture) to rent the dress (that is perceived as only to be worn once), I had insisted in favour of keeping the timeless beauty, in the hope that one day our daughter or daughters’ daughter’s daughter, would continue the tradition and wear, and keep it as I would and a most treasured possession.
Something Borrowed
An unnecessary expense perhaps. Maroon red one shouldered Roberto Cavalli gown, with a draped skirt split thigh high against her bare skin, jewelled and cut out detail at the waist, worn at our reception to represent the love and passion we would share. I saw it in one of my favourite films and made her the envy of all the others, as it accentuated her curves and tweaked her pierced nipples beneath the air-conditioned air. My friends eyeing her off in approval as obvious as my own erection, as their girlfriends/wives jealously glared at my voluptuous bond girl. If it had bothered her she hadn’t show it, sipping champagne and flirting with me from across the room. The tease of turning her low cut back to me, and tossing her red curls over her shoulder to expose her napes elegant line. With that cheeky smile and sparkled wink, she had taken another’s arm, imploring me to intervene,(which eventually I would, because I didn’t like it, even if and trust her I do), but first I’d made her wait, act as if I didn’t care, distract myself with a beauty of equal merit, knowing she’d be wishing that she had chosen a more captivating pawn (yet be glad that she hadn’t, knowing how personally I’d take it…Isn’t my most attractive feature I will admit, but it is unwittingly part of the game and our foreplay, to spark my jealousy -out of spite on most occasions I suspect- but this was not one of those times, she was just playful). I knew when I found her she’d be grateful. That I’d cut in and we’d twirl. That laughing she would take my hand, lead me into an unexpected a corridor, a balcony or on this occasion just behind the curtain folds of a window. She’d kiss my lips, undo my belt, fall onto bent knee, unzip me with her teeth and lick, suck and kiss…my cock feels hard just thinking about it.
Something Blue
Custom made sweetheart dusk blue lace corset. Was it my favourite, or his? Crushed, giddy and consumed in childlike delight how could I have gone wrong? Revelling in the anticipation of his arousal, obviously displayed, as he had assisted me in my post wedding pre-reception wardrobe change. It was a lips bitten and licked shhhh! moment. The secret I had teased and whispered as he had taken my hand and led me into the private but public change room. That discovery of the matching crotchless pearl thong, with bows and ribbons for him to unwrap from underneath …of which perhaps I had also with his teeth? Smiling up as he watched me, I closed my eyes and bit my lip, wondering perhaps if I was yet lost in his moment? I was, although I did not say it nor did he see my eyes when they fluttered open, as first he lifted and parted the layers of silk and skirt, nor again when he kissed and parted my magenta pink lips. I ran my fingers through his short yet wavy dark hair and pulled him closer, as he had scrawled the alphabet upon my pearl with his tongue. I murmured then moaned as he licked, tickled and sucked. He took me to oblivion with but a name, mine. I braced the wall knowing that in that attempt not to be heard or discovered, I was holding my breath, and in that detail I would lose control moaning, groaning louder and coming harder, but there was nothing I could do about it, it was be heard or be HEARD. For he had whispered in my ear and then said, that if I was going to wear pearls he was going to make sure that I not only cried but screamed. And with that last thought, we had entered that hall hand in hand, I as the Mrs to his Mr, blissfully dishevelled and utterly unwrapped.
Chapter One?
Like a zombie she boarded the plane in sexy slippers, a cashmere powder blue chemise and matching silky French knickers, his flannelette stripy darker blue unflattering but warm pyjama bottom, and a super soft ‘impractical’ dressing gown. Yes, they she had got some looks but it was a long flight and she wanted to be comfortable. After all the first leg was to be the hardest, as for ‘safety reasons’ they had chosen to fly economy there, ride business class during and treat themselves to first class on the way home. Kind of like their adventure: backpacking at first, then living like locals and immersing themselves in the culture, the food, clothing and values, before spoiling themselves in the lap of luxury of an expensive experience (i.e. fancy La Digue lodge). *** It was Valentine’s Day. I wondered how I had never noticed it before? Stubbled and Golden, had he always been clean shaven? Head tilted with bemused eyes that questioned as I fought the urge to reach up and stroke his prickled cheek, had I lingered too long? For like ‘teddybear’ blink and it was gone, hidden beneath that forbidden and knees weak alluring, side dark. Still, I had pondered that which had just seemed fitting: The influence of my preference and his signature ‘black’, contrasted against of my feelings, feverish and ‘red’ hot, that now I questioned? That decision? That tinsel? That foil? And those chocolate hearts wrapped? *** Murmuring, now in the air and groggily unfastening her seatbelt, she curled up on his lap and in his arms. He was warm and well rested, whereas among other things, she had been too excited to sleep. Flip side he was now awake, ordering the whiskey he normally would not (something about the colour put him in a killer mood). She smiled up at him, kissed the back of his palm, lifted the glass to her lips, mouthed ‘I love you’ before swirling and sculling so that thankfully she was already asleep before the plane had even lifted off the ground. *** This Morning I Had an IKEA Moment. You know the advertisement, Boy girl pashing in the hallway FINALLY make it to the bedroom, only to be welcomed by that omg! wtf! coyote ugly instinct to run the fuck away! A bare wooden sleep out, fridge, desk, and single …yes I said SINGLE… bed! How grown men could sleep in anything less than a queen (or at the very least a double), is beyond me. It’s like a Tim Tam moment, once you’ve had the luxury of double coated, there is no going back to ordinary old original … not that, in the grand scheme of things, it really mattered. His furnishings, his material objects, his frostings so to speak, Were gone once distracted by his movement, his grind, his lips lingering soft and wet, as they brushed bruised against mine, with pressure firm yet gentle, as tenderly I tasted his temptation and was lost in the comfort of his familiarity. *** She stirred, snuggling into his warmth, felt him kiss her forehead, stroke her hair and soothe her back to sleep. *** When A Look Ses It All. And yet, at times, I still didn’t understand him. There was always just that one expression that confused as much as it intrigued. Blank? Surprised? Vague? Or just plain unguarded? It was like it was written there for all to see and yet I was lost in his foreign translation. I would see it, that look, tilt my head, bite my lip, tongue stuck out a little to the side and wonder how he would answer if I ever plucked up the courage, to actually ask him, ‘A penny for your thoughts?’. I imagine his reply as shy as that looked down, away, then up, out from the corner of his wrinkled crinkled eye and out from beneath the fluttering of his lids, with but a cheeky hint of a smile curling upon his lips, glance. A look caught, yet then hidden and the moment would be cloaked in his mask of seriousness. On my part, it was a frown, a pout and a sigh. For yes it was this look I am referring to. That innocent, raw and untouched look that without malice was but a cluster of seconds we’d share, as we lingered in the layers that were languages trust. Him giggling, and I, with a silly girl-like cloud nine smile stuck on my dial. The unspoken intimacy in such gesture, evoking me to reach out and playfully tug at his waist, because I can’t explain it, he just makes me feel ‘that’ safe. *** With a jolt she woke up abruptly. Again, he soothed, told her it was just turbulence and teased her playfully for that second of panic and/or fear. ‘I thought’, she whispered, finishing her sentence with something dream-like and incoherent, but exhausted, again slept. *** Judgement. Maybe I should’ve seen this one coming, none the less it was unexpected and caught me off guard. He was angry and I could tell, saw straight through his lies. Just like his cold piercing glance would slice right through me, cutting me down like I was collateral damage and meant nothing at all. Of course (rolling my eyes) he would say it was nothing. That there was nothing wrong. Yet I would still know that there was. His eyes would flash, he would shrug his shoulders, pretend he didn’t understand my English, and infuriate me further by giving me that, ‘It’s all in your head’ impression. Our arguments were always that black and white, and whatever side of the fence I was sitting on, I was always wrong and he was always right. I hated it, that vague indifference! Wishing he would just communicate and spit it out. But (sigh) alas the most I’d get was some snide remark. Like in this instance, my ‘inability’ to set a better example. He, who sat on the sidelines, without any real knowledge or experience in what it took, (other than the sulking 5yr old’s who blindly had him wrapped around their little fingers) had the nerve to criticise me! It was like a slap in the face. I had recoiled, when he had said it, as if he had actually struck me, was there such force behind his utterings! Speechless, I hadn’t said a word, just turned around and walked out, retreating around a corner where no one -or at least not himcould see my tears spill out *** Another jolt, more violent this time. She half awoke and sat up, confused that he was no longer beside her, but not alarmed (his seat was still warm so he couldn’t have gone far). Murmuring a little, she had pulled the shade down, heeded the perhaps unnecessary seat belt sign and closed her eyes. *** Sooo cute and adorable. So sweet and funny. It makes me smile, remembering back to way back when and my first …phone. Lol. As if you thought I was going to say something else? But not everything was about sex. It’s those little details, and how you pay attention to them that paints the picture. And he, my Mediterranean god, with his chiselled chest and sparkling white smile, was once just as dorky and uncool as the rest of us. For he too also had a little black brick. The first time I had noticed it. I Had ‘Followed’ Him to Whoop Whoop, taken the wrong bus, gotten off at the wrong stop, followed a series of bad directions and spent the next few hours wandering aimlessly. My new slimline flashy metallic phone had died, so I had no numbers, no keys, no money, a bus ticket on the verge of expiring (If only I had known the time). No-one knew where I was, or more precisely, where I wasn’t, and even if I could’ve retraced my steps, (I couldn’t), I had nowhere to go, as I had arranged to be picked up from his destination. Thus, I had felt that I had had no other choice but to continue to weave and walk, street after similar street, around cul-de-sac after winding cul-de-sac, through dodgy bushland that gave me dinosaur thunder with ‘angel in the creek’ flashbacks and made me feel physically sick. Until I had stumbled across an unmarked main road. Deserted and in the fading light I had followed it into the cold night. I had walked this way, I had crossed it and then crossed back. I had walked that way, turned around and walked back. I was lost and so close to tears when finally, by some miracle I had found him. Everyone was leaving and hadn’t understood but he had. Stayed with me, kept me company, offered to call. He had waited with me even though he himself had somewhere else to be. He could have left, (he was never good with my tears and I was clearly distraught, on the verge of and in desperate need of a hug but fearful that if I even opened my mouth or… I wouldn’t have been able to stop the gush of salty tears welling up from beneath my already swollen eyelids from rolling down my flushed and hot cheeks), but he hadn’t. He had sat there beside me, filled my silence with distraction. Told me of tales of his homeland and about that one time even he got lost (in a city, a town, the bush, unfamiliar territory, separated from his friends). He explained how he had walked in circles …such close quarters… there was a moment where he paused and our eyes had met and he had lent in as if to … but it was a moment and train of thought broken by the bad timing of my lift’s arrival, where in the car those tears, I had shielded. *** Disorientated in the dark cabin she again awoke to his empty seat, wondering again where he was? It was just odd that he was not there, he did not like to fly, and the cabin was bustling with a combination of the unnerved and the rowdy drunken thrill seekers, riding the rough weather like an amusement ride. She reached for his ‘irrational fear of flying’ tote bag, that that she had lovingly prepared for them (with all the necessities to make their journey more comfortable), yet was surprised to find his gone. She sighed, pouting as she put on her fluffy watermelon (though he insisted the colour was like his shirts and not pink but ‘salmon’) earmuffs and pouting closed her eyes again and slept. *** Compassion. Mine, as I fretted and fussed, a little or a lot, (if you considered the snickering of remarks I was subjected to whenever he was out of earshot). Of course, I had ignored them, doted on him regardless. Carried his bags as he hobbled along on crutches with a massively swollen and bruised limb. A sporting accident he laughed off as nothing and no big deal. Told me it didn’t even hurt, (although I suspected this was the painkillers talking), that he didn’t need help and yet hadn’t complained when I had insisted, when I still had … just smiled that smile and let me be, let me bite my licked lip, bat my eyelids and …(wink)… *** Startled by the more frequent rifts in pocket of air but not wanting to add to the already rattled passengers occupying the busy airhostesses, she punched the flimsy excuse of an airline pillow, wishing she had not insisted now on economy when so many had advised against, (‘for it was their honeymoon after all’) but stubborn to the point of counting to three and wild horses couldn’t change her mind if it was made up. Suffering now but yes, she sucked it up, snuggling into his still empty seat beside her and ignoring the conversation/pickup line starters and or dad jokes of the pervy older man in the aisle seat, she closed her eyes, hoping he’d come back soon. *** His Favourite Number. First card. Was it a fluke or absent minded? like how I had forgotten to sign it? Did he know or just guess? it was from I and so appreciated yes. Didn’t speak to me for a week though & with an overactive imagination my mood became low. Because I admit I didn’t take it well. From the moment I wake up, to the moment I close my eyes, he is never far from mind, just a cluster of pieces that in hindsight began to rhyme. Hanging on the door, like patience was I waiting on the floor? Wondering did it even matter, did he even care? Was I just standing there in his blank unknowing stare? Trapped in the ‘what if’s’ of a virtue, That I knew in the end was always in the category of ‘he is only going to hurt you’. Yet still stubbornly I would stay there, regardless of whether his behaviour was unjust or unfair! Thinking to myself that he had taken a little of my soul, and now was I just observing the shards shattering beneath the remnants of that which he stole? For with my luck it would be just that the lustre of magic lingering in the air like a bunny pulled from a magician’s hat. That hint of cloud nine love lost, was I now just wandering through his indifference to what the future of those feelings would now cost? Gone were the ‘let be kisses’, those lips brushed and draped across caresses. Absent was the mist of his breath on my neck heavy and hot, gripped grasped with bitten lips parted wet in slithers trail met and yes, sooo soft. I wonder now where is that hand that I had once held? Or those arms that wrapped around me when my legs curled? Entwined together we were no more, for somehow it had all stopped and I was left wondering what it was all for? He was just different, and I just withdrawing from borrowed time lent. He would avoid eye contact like I had the plague, leaving me feeling awkward, disheartened, sad and yes vague. I’d retreat inward like a bold snail touched recoiling into its safe shell, and he, his behaviour just shrugs me off with an attitude of ‘oh well’. So, there it is seven: SUPPOSE TO BE LUCKY, BUT DOWN RIGHT FUCKING SUCKY *** She opened her eyes to big hazel ones peeking through between the gap in the seats in front, there was a dull whirling and the child giggled like a trill squeak of a marine animal and mimicked, over and over said ‘It’s just a bad dream, go back to sleep’. The lights came back on and she saw him there beside her chatting and smiling and with a sigh of relief, she closed her eyes and snuggled back into his empty seat *** When we had first met we would do brunch. Of course, he would still always eat his lunch at his desk. A chicken? Turkey? Salad sandwich on Helga’s multigrain bread prepared with love by his mother dearest. Lol. I can’t help but smile at the notion. Even if I don’t quite understand its appeal. Not the love of course I get that, but the being of age and still living at home bit. It just seems so inconceivable, having myself left home at a young age. Of course, like all guys he had lied about the detail, told me it was the other way around, that his mum ‘lived with him’. Like I’d never put two and two together, or pay attention to the contradiction between words and action i.e. resided in the smaller bedroom and not the master, and that his mama still ruled the roost. Strings I had cut long ago, (and thus, almost made me envious). Although wouldn’t give up my freedom for anyone …except maybe him (Wasn’t that a thought?!) None the less, I still found the gesture and how he received it, like his name defined, and yes ‘sweet’. Afterwards he’d always take a long lunch and come meet me. Best part of my day watching him walk up from a far. Those first moments where perched crossed legged, swinging my calves where I’d catch his eye and feel giddy. Tis all about the little things and he made me glow. Sometimes we’d just walk and talk, others they would feed the ducks. We’d find forgotten parks, frequented but otherwise deserted (as if we were the only ones there). We’d discuss architecture, design, religion, nature, food. He’d talk about his travels, his experiences were vast and mine non-existent but I always liked to listen. He Has The Sexiest Accent, and I could listen to it and him all day, never be bored and always enthralled *** She heard him call her name and awoke to oxygen masks dangling and glistening in the flashes of light. With only split seconds to react, she remembered the dolphins, stuck her arm out to indicate which we to swim, then sat upright one arm crossed over her chest, the other braced against the seat in front impact and leaned back again the chair to avoid whiplash. one, two, three, she breathed in and held her breath, as shock she was in the icy cold water.
So, there they were waiting at the gate, hand in hand on those hard-plastic unforgiving seats early but with hours to kill. He had wanted to lounge and drink but she had wanted to sleep, nuzzling her chin into his shoulder as she had pouted and complained that he had kept her up and yet slept so soundly. He remembered it well, and he smiled thus allowed her this win. *** We had played ‘Silence!’ I afore looking down at her, as she stood there trembling with anticipation. I leaned down as if our lips will meet, waited for her to reach up on tippy toes, Her head tilted, Eyelids fluttering, lips parted ready to close, lock mine taste my tongue. But just as our lips would brush I smiled. And teasingly moved away. She’d pouted. Dramatically flopping down on the balls of her feet with a hmpf! Crosses her arms with attitude, Scowled up at me. Again, I had leant down, Waited for her to move (She always falls for it.) But unamused stubbornly she shook her head at me, stood her ground, mouthing ‘not this time’ Calmly, I pulled her soft lips back up to meet mine. I brushed her mouth briefly. Before again pulling away and gently I pushed her face to my left, and like we had not choreographed it a hundred times, trailed my fingertips down her cheek and along her jaw. I watched her hold her breath Close her eyes melt into my moment, As the rough surface of my palm Continued down and around. To caress the contours of her neck and throat. I paused, kissed her pulsating jugular, and let my free hand wander. Circled her shoulder, trailed a line down her forearm, Along her wrist that was now pressed up against my chest. Roughly I turn her, Surprised this time she had gasped Let a little moan of pleasure out. I stopped, Paused, Tskd! in her ear, In the stillness I had made her wait, And then when she least expected Slapped her round rear hard Again she had gasped (knowing better than she had in the past not raised her hand in retaliation) so I had let it slide Hissing a whispered Shhhhh!. As I had watched her bite her bottom lip harder. Satisfied with her silence I had resumed. My left hand now lingering on her breast. I entangled the fingers of my right in her long wavy locks, Grabbing a handful, I had gently yanked her head back. She murmured. Caught herself again Bit her lip in the attempt to try her best and not to cry out. Sometimes she succeeds, Sometimes her pleasure was but her pain ( And vice versa) But not this time. This time I had taken her in the shower, Fully clothed and against the paned glass window Where anyone could, but never did see. *** So, she slept and he watched her, *** Like I had watched her after stripping her and myself of our wet clothes. I had dried us with a fluffy powder blue bath sheet. Wrapping it around us, pulling her in and holding her there. I had kissed her roughly as I pulled her hair I had pushed her backwards onto a chair. spread her legs with my foot. stood over her let my swollen thang dangle in front of her face. Watched her lean her face forward stroke me with her cheek. Brush me with her lips open her mouth and engulfed me. In and out. Shallow and fast. until thrusting now she took me deep and slow. And began to swallow ... *** Startled by the turbulent take off, she jumped as she awoke distracting him from his thoughts. He pulled her closer and kissed her forehead and reassured her that everything was alright, soothing that it was ‘just a dream’. *** She was still naked but I had got dressed. I blindfolded her, turned on the light. From behind I inched her forward, until abruptly pushing her to land on Egyptian cotton and silk sheets. With soft fluffed out pillows, I rolled her over onto her back, leaned above her, took both her wrists in one of mine, rummaging nearby for my discarded tie. I bound her wrists above my head, let my cold gold chain and cross fall out from beneath my open white linen striped shirt. Let it slap against her warm flesh, her pink nipples and full breasts. She flinches as she hears that unfamiliar skkkkh! Moans as I love her with whipped cream then groans as I devour her all sticky with strawberries chocolate sauce. Dipped and licked and shared and kissed, Mocking her with words ‘tis all about sense and sensation’. I leave her gasping in the silence then find her shivering in the cold I untie her one wrist at a time, sponged bathe her in hot water with a rough cloth. let the hot summer breeze from the open window tingle as it dries. Linger with fingers draped in fragrant oil. She starts to drift all cloud nine and uninhibited I turn her and take her, first slowly gently and then rough. I filled her and full she moans. I slapped her and she groans. I … and she… and we. so hmmmm… Yes… If anyone ever asked Saturdays? They were always sexy. *** Again, she awoke, he teased her this time and she mumbled something he didn’t understand before rolling away from him and going back to sleep. *** Blame It on the Moon. She’d say as she’d pout call me moody man cave. Because apparently, I was distant, resentful or broodingly indifferent to her eccentrics. Like how she loved a moonlit night and even more showing me its silver lining. That empowerment of imagination, as she liked to say ‘ebullient and free’. That brought out her crazy, sexy and reckless wild side. For she like to dress up, she liked to play the part. Liked to be all helpless and vulnerable, then cheeky waiting and ready to pounce. For she had toys, feathers and ticklers. She liked to wear nothing but stilettoes and long silky satin black gloves. She would parade in front of me in lingerie and lace. Tease me with feather dusters, all feminine and pastel or even hot pink. Once she had suggested a cock ring “to enhance her pleasure’ she said. Another time, revealed new piercings to entice mine. She’d surprise me with crotchless panties, fishnets and nothing but a little bow. Sometimes she only wore corsets with a mask, or would tempt me with a whip, thong and a string of pearls. She was all to be played with and gifted me vouchers so she was at my beck and call. …and of course I would let her think I was still sulking, strut and exert my dominance, my masculinity. but, even if I was, I’d never stay angry *** He shook her a little and whispered in her ear as he tried to rouse her unsuccessfully from slumber in an attempt to coach her to follow him into the mile-high club. To have her confined in close quarters unable to escape so roughly he could take her. He sighed and ventured alone to savour the moment, taking her tote bag of comforts with him in the hope she would awaken find him and it absent remember the premeditated signal and come surprise him cock in hand. *** On rare occasions, usually after an unresolvable fight, she would surprise me turn up unannounced on my lunch break or after work in a short skirt and a long jacket. We’d discover and explore quaint little bars in back alleys and drink cocktails. Sometimes we’d pretend, play role reversal but never talk about it that elephant in the room that had gotten at least one of us to that awkward pissed off point. I wouldn’t complain and she wouldn’t overreacted. We wouldn’t argue about who was or who wasn’t taking the other ‘too serious or not serious enough’. We never disputed who had or had not stated in their own words how they liked to be ‘eaten alive’ and thus, understand where perhaps the misunderstanding had arisen. She wouldn’t act innocent or sweet because she knew there were days where I’d intentionally provoke her animalistic antics specifically so, we’d fight and she’d fuck. I knew her moods and no I wasn’t shy about manipulating there swing. Because she knew how I liked it when she’d take control, show me how her boots were made to walk all over me. She’d… and then… before we’d again in reverse. She’d dribble me in honey. kiss me from my toes to my cock. get me all hot and bothered, then fan me and caress me with ice. She’d handcuff me hands behind my back, be all serious and stern as she questions with tongue in cheek and bitten lip, ‘are we blushing yet?’ provocatively she’d torment me with tea. My…her hot and steamy breath. She’d… and I’d… and we’d… then speak no more of it because all would be FORGIVEN. *** Caught with his pants down confined and alone as the compartment lost pressure, he decided to wait no longer and return to their seats for he did not like to fly, though frequently did. *** For they were fine lines Hard hot defined lines bent captured then released. Taunt tight lines loved and let go of Sexy and seductive lines curled and yes caressed. Lines she loved to cross. For example, early that morning she’d surprised me fresh out of the shower, blindfolded me in her foxy orange eyes. Sat me on the bed and hugged me from behind. Her wet lady bits bare against my lower back. She had let her fingers wander and her hands caress. She had stroked and kissed my nipples, traced a path from my chest to my toes, used my tie to fasten one hand to the bed legs so I’d ‘wear it at work and remember’. She’d let me lie there and then wonder as I felt cold liquid tingle. Whilst she fed me strawberries and loved me with champagne, She’d kissed me, teased me let me guess the complexity. between sweet mangoes, papayas, pineapple and passionfruit. Then tricked me by feeding me a breakfast of buttery avocados, moist coconut chips and salty oysters. She’d lingered above me with oil, massaged me front to back and from head to toe. She had untied me, lay on top of me, implored me Hard now I had taken control, returned the favour kneaded away her knots, let her drift a moment. half awakening her as I rolled her over, I was gentle first but then I was rough. I was slow, and then I was fast. I’d thrust hard and make her groan. I filled her up and full watched her bite her lip and hmmm. I pulled her up and I pulled her down. Put knees around my waist, Rested her ankles on my shoulders, just because I knew how much she liked it like that I’d penetrated her soft and slow so, I could listen to her but moan. Again, I’d rolled her over, slid her bottom up doggie style on all fours. I took her from behind I wasn’t done until Id made her scream, made her call me god. and even then was only the beginning and not the end, like she minded whispering ‘never stop’. She was loud, orgasmic and just how I liked it. To have her melt at my mere touch. I could see it in her eyes. To but say her name, know she’d be on her knees, with licked lips, her head in my lap. Heavy and hot, in our bed, on the couch, in the theatre, and even in my car as I drove. The rain beating competing with our steam fogging up the glass. This was it. Our SILVER LINING. *** He made it out the door but not to their seats and whilst he could just see her, lying there peaceful in oblivion like an angel, was only in flashes of light flickered and then dim. He strapped their ‘his and her’ tote bag/back pack backwards and to his chest how she had carrying like a baby, with all the necessities to bear forth their first adventure, matching fashionable wool long johns, compass, plastic ponchos, and all those other romantic things like antiseptic cream, toiletries tooth brushes and soap. They had booked economy (because it was the safer end of the plane), picked seats just behind the wing, window seats of course, close (within the five-seat radius) to the emergency exit doors. Safety first she had said with a cheeky lip bitten…moment lost in another jolt. He called her name … *** That was just the way it was. Just the way we were. She was insatiable and I was never satisfied. She’d keep me up when she knew I had to work the next day, And in turn I would wake her up early on a weekend, Even though I knew how she liked to sleep in. Nobody was complaining. I was ravenous and she just couldn’t get enough. Drunk on her lust and eternally hungry for my gratification, And thus, endlessly waiting on me and my every word with baited breath. For she was forever thirsty And I at all times prepared to have her soaked and dripping in her my our sweat. It was just instinct. She said it was my fault, that I had great pheromones. That even when I was all sweaty and at my worst, I always smelt sooo good. She’d tell me I was just this primal sexy beast, parading in a soft innocent shell, with a dirty dominant soul. *** Trying not to panic, as he unbuckled himself and swam in the direction of his bubbles, he tryied not to gasp it in as the dark murky water gushed towards him. he knew if he panicked he’d scream and the pressure would crush his lungs, like the gargling faces already in the water. their eyes total recall bulging and wide, their gangling lifeless limbs spasming while others were gripped or kicking. By some miracle he found her at the surface, in the watery jungle of bodies and twisted metal. It was surreal bazaar and intangibly twisted to say the least, as he broke her free from another’s panicked lifeless sinking grasp. Confused and surrounded by muffled noise chopping at the water and loud gushing patches of orange blinding hot light, he saw a flickering white light in the distance and began the long journey of guiding her towards it.
She didn’t know how she ended up on that dark beach, with no moon but lit up like day. She was wandering aimlessly amongst the mangled metal narrowly trying to avoid the unbearable bursts of burning heat. Perhaps better than choking on not only her own tears but the toxic black smoke that smelt like singed hair and bacon, burning the back of her throat and leaving her lips to smarting like a chemical burn, was her upper lip so sore, hot, dry and numb. Were there other survivors? Or was she alone? *** Legs Eleven. He was tall, rugged and handsome. Suited in soft blends of Italian virgin wool and silk, he counted numbers by day. Tis a weakness of mine, for I do love a man in a suit and he wears them so well. Crisp pastels and white linen shirts contrasted against the light and dark of grey. His collar unbuttoned with but a hint of a gold chain glistening in the sun. An air of bergamot, mandarin, basil, lily, patchouli, moss and fresh sandalwood lingering invigoratingly in his wake. Hmmm, definitely fit the bill For he is ‘fan me’ sexy and yes I find myself blushing at his lip bitten thought. *** She kept thinking she could hear someone screaming but couldn’t tell whether the tone was in anguish or in pain? It was at times so shrill and high pitched she couldn’t even tell if it was male or female? She couldn’t find them, like she couldn’t find him and was beginning to think she was chasing an echo because she couldn’t even differentiate whether the voice came from someone else, or if it just her? Screaming, crying and bleeding in the sand? *** Hump Day. Forever my favourite day of the week. I had met him on a Wednesday, had slept walked to my front door awoken in conversation. It was love at first sight … if like I, you believed in that kind of thing. There are just some emotions you can’t fake. Some things you just knew. Some feelings you couldn’t explain even if you tried. For if you could, would it not be fair to suggest that perhaps? you had never actually felt them at all? Take butterflies for instance, logically speaking, if this were true, then the theory is, that one could just learn to overcome them. Biting my lips in contemplation, for yes, I am literal minded, so, it isn’t that I can’t conceive the possibility, just more that I am wondering why anyone would realistically want to? Yeeeess, (and I am rolling my eyes at you too), I get the potential in eliminating self-doubt but debate at what cost? Do the ends really justify the means? To strip away that excitable innocence just so one could be left with what? The mundane inflation of egotistical traits? Is it not like removing the unknown aspect that ultimately intensifies the outcome of a surprise? Or when those medical experts distinguish the delight in baby’s first smile with the proclaimed brush off of ‘it’s just gas.’ It’s a disappointing, clinical, cynical and cold feeling. And I am thankful that this has never been the case for me. Grateful even, that there have and would always will be those individuals who for better or worse, still have that power over me. Be they present or past, men or yes even women, of whom I hope will always hold that little place in my heart. They are my highs and they are my lows. They keep me humble and appreciative. They are my balance, my always glass full. They, their and those experiences, are what makes me ‘me’, and I wouldn’t change them for all the ‘would’ve/could’ve been’s.’ Where I was too shy or not shy enough. Some memories are good, some bad, yet they are the moving images that I hope will haunt my dying breath. For however it does or does not make sense, he even now after everything and that final page turned, still makes my Heart Flutter, Cheeks Burn and Stomach Dance. *** All the faces she had found were either disfigured, or burnt and thus void of any features. Remnants of fabric clinging to their lifeless bodies. What was he wearing? She racked her brain, but couldn’t remember? Jeans maybe, definitely a jacket or a hoodie. She tried to think colour? Not that she could distinguish it from the melted synthetic fabrics still smouldering. *** He was a boxer. Taught boxing for fitness by night. Regrettably I had once said this wasn’t real boxing. Reflecting now, in hindsight, on how hurtful and bitchy it was to utter. The awkward, unintentional and Stupid Things You Say. Kicking myself now, as I condemn my tongue with ‘What do I know?’ Other than that, I wish I had never uttered nor said, that which was written and that which he had read. I hadn’t meant it, or at least not like that, the way he took it. For doesn’t he know how much I treasured him and his sport? How he will forever be the guy in that first photo, (somewhere yes, I still have)? The one where he was ‘all tradie’, with singlet and sporting but a hint of that goatee he now wears. I still feel that same excitement in seeing his fists/wrists wrapped. How can he not know my favourite past time is when we spar? Or how much I love the fluidity in his movement? Is he blind? Can he not see how entranced I am by his every step? How can he not know it is the way he looks into my eyes? Before sweeping me off my feet and catching me as I fall? Even though granted know it annoys him that I am better at it than him as he scoffs at the notion that I can see his tell/iris pull left and evade? I like it that that he has never given it to me easy, nor taken into account that I am just this shy girl at the mercy of his dangling limbs, (waist height level with my nipples and or breasts…for yes I did measure), when others would complain he was taking my femineity into account or not being gentle enough. He knew I could give back as good as I got. Got well out of my way that one time kicked me below the belt, (guarded yet but still stung). Lessoned learned. I can concede his technique was always better and that he almost always won. For nothing compares to his combinations. Tis all in the way he taught me to duck, weave, counter and block. His left, his right, his hook, his jab. His elbow followed by his kick. My forever favourite will always be his back fist. With its crisp white canvas snap. He should know that one, for even now, with my eyes but closed, I can hear and feel it. For it was and is still such a turn on and bitten lip hmmm. Smiling in remembrance, of that time when he lay there on the cool court, his back straight and his legs bent. Imploring me to come hold him down. Teasing me to ‘demonstrate how I’d do it’. Alas I had just stood there, too shy to be dirty and straddle him, being fully aware that yes, he, with that chest and those muscles, will always have me all tired up and on my back in a second, smiling and laughing with neither of us forfeiting nor giving in. *** She felt dizzy and wanted to sit down, find somewhere away from the flames to just rest her eyes a moment but too afraid of the dark without his arms around her, keeping her warm, to stray far. Quieter now, a light tinge brightening the sky, she wandered further up the beach. She didn’t know why, but the daylight always made me feel safe. Her head ached, the left side more tender and her hair cloggy like congealed glue, but still wet and when she touched it. With no tears left to cry, a blocked nose, she was hyperventilating and choking on her own breath. She kept telling myself ‘this is just a dream’, until exhausted and in shock, she collapsing to shiver in the sand. *** The first thing I had noticed about him were his lips, lost in that moment of closed eyes licked hmmm yes remembering our First Kiss How that soft pink upper lip curled against the full pout of his bottom one, And parted mine with his tongue as his hand took control of my hip. A gentle hand full of hair pulling my head back, In swift action freed was my bloused rack, With lips now bitten I had gasped, For he had freed them from their…and clasp. That bench top stool and how the breeze through the open window was cool. How hard and hot against the glass rattling violently as if it would crack, Of how it was then he lay me down upon his brown leather couch on my back. The warmth of his body above and the lips bitten hmmm of again when we made love. His breath in my hair as he whispered thick with accented words divine, Of how it felt every second, minute, hour, day, month, and years he was mine. Of cocktails, we meant to but never drank. Of laughter warm fuzzy sweet and kinky conversations frank. Of those feeling ebullient and free. Of inches away that ghost like caress with fingertips touched, For bitten lip and fuck do I remember short stubby and a little rough. Caught drowning in that gaze that wink, in those eyes wrinkled, crinkled that flutter then blink. With lips that crush brushed bruised and parted with tongue, To be taken yet held and then shown how it is all hung. Indulged with travels of memorable moments equal in pleasure to his hehe, Dreaming I was just lying there under the covers when it was just him and just me. On my belly still wanting more then to full asleep listening to his hear thump, For nothing would this feeling trump. To lie there lullabied by the rise and fall of his breath, Stroking with hands and tickled palms caress. Most guys hate it with a passion like I with that air freshener wtf? Pzzzt but curled and twirled it helped me sleep and he minded not said could lay there all day and rest. The niceties of not having to leave but yes stay, and linger in the moment of come what may *** She woke up half in the water, half in the sand, to the gentle lap of foamy white clear water and the wind biting against the bareness of my arms. The sky was a silver grey, like not there but somewhere in the distance it may erupt. But she didn’t care, she just lay there on that crushed rough pea mattress of sand, too…but yet imaging their pillow top and feather downers, ignoring the soft pitter patter cool that stung her sun kissed fair skin, like she was turning a blind eye to the unfocused smouldering but still smoky unnatural chunks profiling the distance. She wasn’t hot, she wasn’t cold, she was just numb. *** It was a bittersweet twist of fate I felt caught in. For it was up and it was down. There were so many wasted days I felt rejected and lost. Days I wanted to chuck it all in, and give it all up. Days I felt unappreciated. Days I wanted to tell him I was leaving, never coming back. And days that I did. Days I had to eat my words because when push came to shove I couldn’t do it and so I still showed up. Days I wanted to throw a tantrum, rip my hair out yell and scream. Days I didn’t understand what was the fucking point? Days I wanted to pick up whatever was closest and peg it at his fucking head! Days I’d bite my tongue and grind my teeth. Days I’d suck it all up. Days I’d implode and spew it all out. Days he’d call me crazy. Days he’d tell me I wasn’t normal, or that I needed help. Days he’d call me insane. Days he’d belittle me with his patronizing tones. Days I’d find him so fucking ironic. Days I’d notice the almost nine lives between us. Days he’d call me immature. Days I’d complain he was like an old closed mind stuck in a young body. Days he’d pick on the little things. Days he’d be all stern and serious. Days he’d complain I was too rough. Days we’d fight and then fuck like that was the point. Days he said he didn’t care what anyone else thought. Days his actions would contradict his words. So many days he’d disappoint me. Days I’d spend crying. Days I felt so hurt and dejected. Days that it rained and nights that it seemed like it fucking poured. Days I’d forget in the instance of hours. Hours I’d feel found. Hours when it felt like everything happened for a reason. Hours where everything made sense. Hours he’d smile that smile from across the room and I’d forget why I was angry or upset. Hours where nothing else mattered. Hours where one thing would lead to another. Hours he’d lighten up the mood and I’d be drunk on his laughter. Hours I felt ecstatic. Hours I felt ebullient, like could it get any better? Hours I felt we were invincible. Hours I felt anything was possible. Hours I felt like I could reach up touch the stars and dance over the moon. Hours I wished someone would pinch me because I felt like I was dreaming. Those were the hours I’d live for. Warm inviting hours. Beautiful contagious hours. Hours…that would turn into moments, where once more he was Like A Dish Served Cold. *** She didn’t know for how long she lay there. Her eyes closed, listening to the golden silence, unable to definite whether she was alive or dead, whether this was just some nightmare she would or would not wake up from. She knew she needed to get up but she didn’t want to. She just wanted to sleep, for at least he was there, even if only as figment of her memory and imagination. Foggy she opened her eyes and wondered if she was still dreaming? The sinister cloud like a storm brewing darkening the sky now moving closer. She slipped in and out of consciousness. She knew she had to get up, make shelter build fire, create that shipwrecked honeymoon suite feel, but then she would close her eyes and drift, before waking up, mouth drier and lips blistered from her jiggered breath. Something caught her eye in the distance. She wondered whether she was imagining it or could it be? but every time she opened my eyes or blinked the silhouetted figure moved closer
