Sensual Indulgence, Familiar and New

A raspberry, I think, picturing the just-ripened juicy pink-red in my mind and transferring the plump-soft memory of unplucked-from-the-vine succulence to the resistance-spring give of swollen flesh pulsing – aroused, turgid, wet, warm – under the press of my fingertip.

Calling on my senses – acute, attuned – I revel in the indulgences of the past while fully experiencing the now.

The remembered scent of Us, Then: post-orgasmic and overwarm, the pheromone-tinged air mingling with the sweet vanilla sugar of my body lotion and the salt-sweat tang of exertion…

The reality of myself, alone, Now: comforting press of mattress firm-soft under limbs sore-tired, gentle swooshes of fanned air kissing exposed skin – cool on my neck, tickling on my toe – I feel every frisson of atmosphere in the gray-dark of 2:00am.

The barely-there moon cuts light briefly through the cloud-thick night, and I feel it like a touch, feather-precise, brushing its illumination over my aroused being.

It is often like this.  (Not often.  Not anymore.  Age and change have altered often to sometimes, but yes.  It is like still like this – when ‘it’ is, at all – for me.)  A color.  A scent.  Texture, sensation.  Light, shadow.  They translate to the body:  sensual, tactile.  Remembrance re-enacted corporeal.

Sensations I’ve loved, I recreate sensately from memory:  I imagine the soft caress of perfect-pressure damp from a well-skilled tongue against the underside of my clit, the force-hold of two fingers buried in my heat while a palm presses against my mons, the “Yes, there…” and Good Boy of my baby-boy’s mouth suckling at my nipples.

And accompanying these memories — sensation-focused and liquid in intensity — I simultaneously revel in the feelings – physical, sensual – of the moment.  The press of my lower back against the bed arches my back, pressing my nipples against the soft of my night shirt, the change in movement frictive under the weight of my comforter.  The drip of sticky-hot honey, slick between my labia, burns a trickle-trail down my inner thigh.  

I focus on the memories, fleeting but detailed.  The scissor-stretch of my husband’s fingers, long and calloused, pushing deep… The thick-fingered come-hither of my paramour’s two-fingered stroke against my G-spot… 

Combined with:

Heartbeat.
Temperature.
Texture, color, shadow.

These are the things that move me, that spur me on.  They are not turn-ons so much as presences of which I’m constantly aware. 

When I was young(er), my body was a different country.  Consistently wet, responsive, overhot, quick, ready.  

Now that I’m old(er), a new rule has been established.  This country I once knew has changed its landscape.  Its boundaries have moved.  What once was pleasureful can now unexpectedly cause pain; what once was a given now – at times – refuses to give and inch.

I am re-learning myself, inside and out.

And this – this afference of fantasy, this sensual indulgence – is how I am traversing new territory…

A well of pressure builds – sudden, expected, immediate, surprising – and with an expelled breath I push the burst of pleasure outward, reveling in the crackle of wave-lightning washing over me as I (finally, as though for the first time) come.

Once again.

…in familiar ways.

I’m linking this post to Brigit Delaney’s Erotic Journal Challenge, as I have failed to take part thus far when the appropriate prompts have been offered (Sensuality, Aging, Turn-Ons, Fantasy), and she’s offered this week as a catch-up week. Click the badge to learn more, or see here to view what other people are (catching) up to.