Here and Now

      8 Comments on Here and Now

abstract high contrast black & white photo of nude crossed thighs

 

My limbs – splayed at the top, crossed at the bottom – a firm but boneless contrast to his wrapped-over-mine tension of form – accept the broad muted brushtrokes of his touch painting over my body with a distorted sense of daydreamy contentment.

I have the sense, for a moment, that we are the temporal occupants of an unreal impressionistic tableau – one that begins and ends and repeats again with every shush of his hands massaging over me – and while I am here, now, I am also…  Not.

We are skin to skin.
We are occupants of separate universes, together in this room.

Cutis: in contact
Essence: [ . . . ]

 

 

The sensory distractions, familiar yet disconcerting in their comfortable constancy, have somehow become a part of our sexual landscape:

  • swooshing fan blades, both refreshingly breezy and overly-drying with the thwp-thwp of their cool on summer-warm skin, draw my eye up and away from the rough-soft strokes of his hands on my flesh;
  • buzzing machinery, a cacophony of whirring grinds and chopping dissonance outside our open window, blurs an auditory line between interruptive commotion and atonal abstraction, a discordant disruption of the sweet susurrations of his lips murmuring indecipherable over my skin;
  • wandering thoughts — Why ever did the previous owners of this house put all those hooks in the ceilings?  Will we EVER get them all out? and Oh, the icemaker just kicked on again.  We really must get new filters.  ASAP.  and Dear God, NOW the cat is jumping up for a snuggle? — intersperse with the relaxed focus of preoccupied pleasure.

I fade out, from here and now to somewhere undefined then back again, losing the immediacy of time, honing in on benign details of space:  the flare of sunlight refracting from window glass to ceiling flat, the unbelting rustle-scratch of leather and metal, the low-hum whirring white noise of everyday life.

 

 

“I want to lick you,” he says.  His graveled voice, transmittance muffled in the cumulus cotton surrounding my concentration, punctuates the run-on stillness.

It is a question; the answer, affirmative.

And then I feel the grain of his tastebuds on the underside of my hooded clit shocking me back into my body long enough to give intimate gasp-stuttered stacatto instructions.

Too hard.
To the left.
Softer.
Lighter, faster.
Not…  Pointy?

There.
THERE.
Stay.

T h e r e . . .

He is there, a physical reminder that I am here, with him.  Fully present, now.

‘Now’ is a moment.  Single.  Tiny.  Strange.

Then ‘now’ is over, and I am gone again.

 

 

Minutes later…

“Do you want another one?” he asks.

Sweet.  Solicitous.

And I feel the cold burn of smooth hard glass through the blur of post-orgasmic unfocus as he heeds my sloe-eyed blinkingly-smiled Yes with erotic immediacy.

I recognize, in a heat-saturated summer-warm fog moment outside myself, that I am neither ‘dis’ nor ‘un’ –

interested, connected

– and yet I am also not…  Not.

And then I am clinging to air, hovering on the brink of Being Present, clenching tight against the onslaught of almost, holding sharp to the edge, pressing the walls of my cunt together in clamp-tight force, willing the rising tide to wait…

But I succumb to the flood.

 

 

And, with the burning stretch of his Hot blazing between my soaked-scorch Soft, I am once again (finally, still) here with him —

back from that gauzy space between lust and distraction, coming-to once again
(even as he comes, too – abashedly asking permission after the gentle manipulations of my fingertips take him too high, make him too hot)

— fully in my body once more,

 

 

HERE

~ and ~

NOW

8 thoughts on “Here and Now

  1. nbratscott

    You prove that a vast vocabulary can be, no, IS sexy….you may be setting a record for thrills per syllable.

    Reply

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