Pachelbel: Variations, Canon
Alone on my deck, surrounded by the quiet goings-on of my neighborhood, I revel in the erotic perceptions of sensory contrapositions. The sun massages its heat into my skin while the salt-chill breeze leaves it cool to the touch. Perspiration sheens my bare flesh while the ice water glass held against my neck sweats chilling drips. The towel beneath me shifts – rough-worn and terry soft – as I change position.
I am secluded, but not.
Secure in the knowledge that I am visible from below only through the second-story porch railing – and only if someone is *really* looking – the exhibitionist in me thrills to the impish impulse thrumming through my veins.
I’ve often been known to say things like, “We need to get Wally a llama,” and “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a long-necked sheep?”
I have even, on occasion, put voice to such grandiose zoological ideas as, “I want an elephant!”
Alas, the only wild beasts I’ve ever had roaming about my domicile are of the domesticated, non-exotic variety.
Somehow – quite by accident – I seem to have acquired a zebra:
Lightning-illuminated snapshots thunder through my dreamscape, each zoom-lens freeze-frame pictorial saturated with sensory color: pregnant skies rumbling their imminent water break, city skyline reflecting the impending dark through high-rise glass highlighted with silver steel framing, and a wet-blurred mirror image of us – reflected at the base of one of those buildings – on the sidewalk below.
I can feel…
the mist, gently assuaging the summer heat, whispering against my cheeks.
your hand in mine, fingers interlacing in a gentle hold.
the kick of the breeze, sudden and swift.
the thrill of primal recognition that bolts through me at the electric charge heating the stormy depths of your gaze, looking directly into mine.
And then there is nothing but sensation. The tug of muscle pulling you forward, the cool of damp windowed glass against my back, the push-hold of my fingers tangled in your hair, the heavy urgent pull of desire in my womb, the steadily increasing beat of droplets hitting the pavement, the precipitate needle stings of beading wet dewing against my skin, the pooling heat at the apex of my thighs, the cool soft of your lips pressing against mine, the gentle thud of your knees as they hit the sidewalk before me.
You lift my skirt, tracing your tongue over the drizzle raining down my thighs.
When your mouth meets my cunt, I wrap one shaking leg around your shoulders and lean back against the suddenly-empty building, turning my face to the sky and closing my eyes, the tingle of rain pelting my skin in the sudden soak-through downpour triggering my own storm.
I am enamored with my ties.
They just speak to…
Don’t you think?