This is a growing collection of my stories. I appear to favour writing about sex and death, not always together. I'm also writing two books. Some days it feels like most other people inhabit a world where you can aimlessly wander into vendor-created wonderlands and purchase things you never knew you needed - for entertainment. The mind boggles. I believe it's because I wasn't allowed to watch television as a child. I just don't get some things. I'm ok with that

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Petite Mort

I know you’re coming home and the lead up is excruciating. It’s like bait.

It's like foreplay.

At first you’re far from here, you’ll be a long time coming. Days pass. I refuse to acknowledge that you’re nearly here. In a few days you'll be in my bed. I think perhaps I should change up one or two things, so you’ll notice the difference. I have to stop myself.

STOP.

You know me, you know us. You'll know I’ve been trying too hard to impress you.

I dress carefully the morning of your arrival. I want to enjoy the feeling of you undressing me later, free of grandma knickers or the threat of a shitty old bra.

On the way to the airport I try to remind myself of the facts. It's about you. I get so caught up in the idea that you’ll be plunging your cock into me soon and that I’ll feel special. I've been reading romance novels and dreaming of erotic sex. I forget it should be about you, not my fantasies. I set myself up to fail. It's my lover coming back to me, flaws and all, not a hero from a book or a fuckable stranger.

I time my arrival at the airport perfectly (something I’ve never been known to do well). I can see your big frame at the baggage carousel. I hold my breath. You haven’t noticed me and perhaps I’ll get right up close to see what your face says when you realise I’m here.

But you see me from a few meters away. You wave and smile. My heart thumps. You’re a little bit like the man I was expecting to welcome into my arms and my bed but so much more flesh, blood and unpredictability. The relationship we’ve been carrying on in my head comes to a screeching halt. I've remembered you a certain way, physically. It disturbs me that you are new, different, changed.

Then again, one can never really know another person. Not really.

I see you and I smell you up close and all I feel is uncertain. I feel wobbly, unreal.

When I dressed this morning what I didn’t imagine is how we would make love. I’m not one to try and plan how these things happen. I'm an awkward woman by nature, planning our flirtation would simply add to my natural gracelessness. In the airport, you kiss me.

Your kiss makes the sound of other peoples cars go away. It takes the edge of the nasty, airless, cement spaces in the airport building. I told you once that I read in a magazine how healthy it is to have 10 second kisses. I want some of those. I notice your new facial hair and how good it feels to be wanted.

At our house, I peel off your black jeans, eager to touch your cock. I wave my shaved pussy in your face and you suck on me. You slide your lovely lips onto my aching white snatch like it means something to you and I can’t wait to get more.

You watch me cum, strumming me to orgasm and we look at each like the answer might be in our eyes.

I’m so far away from you, being filled and caressed.

I hope I feel moist and tight. You lick my pink nipple and hold the weight of my breast in your big hand. You make the act of fucking chaotically soft and swollen. You take me, pushing your cock in, giving me all I can take.

“Condom.”

In answer you withdraw. Roll onto your back with your hand on your cock.

“Where are they?”

I look for the packet, waving my white arse in the air by way of invitation. You run your large fingers over my clit, into my wetness, spreading my slickness around. It’s hard to concentrate as your fingers disappear inside but I bring a plastic sheath back from the bedside.

I take the proffered man-fruit and coat my toy with saliva. Your cock tastes of me and the room smells of sex. Your busy hand in my slit makes me moan.

I lick up the inside of your man-meat, sliding the whole thing into my mouth. I forget that we’re supposed to be wrapping you in plastic. You remind me. I roll it on like an amateur, getting caught up on the hood, the plastic catches on itself.

I remember the time a girlfriend taught me how to roll one on with my teeth. Why can’t I put that skill into practise now? (I don’t.) In the end you sort it out.

I want to feel you stretching me. And then it's real. You're slipping inside in one pleasurable movement. My cervix grinds and I’m impaled. In a moment, your hands are lifting my arse and dropping my weight into place in an intimate, pleasurable ride.

“I want to have control.”

I push you away. I relish the opportunity. I’m on top and a change of pace is exquisite. I bury you deep and rub my knees into the mattress, rolling my hips. The width of your cock pressed against the front wall of my cervix. Warm, profound, invasive, maddening fireworks. I’m taking it all. Your bedroom eyes watch me as I tip over the edge and orgasm. I cum on your cock, I cum on your hand. My breasts brush your bicep and we roll over.

You’re stroking my insides. I’m quaking.

In those few short minutes, you own me. We own each other.

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