Breathe Into Me

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

The first thing I noticed about you? Your breath. As you spoke to me on that crowded Tube train a sweet-sharp waft of peppermint snaked its way inside my nostrils creating a sudden and unrequested intimacy.

It was odd that you were talking to me. Strangers don’t speak to each other on the Tube. Except perhaps in an emergency or when some unexpected event unites them. But there had been no sudden plunge into darkness, no crazy person bursting into song; you had simply turned to me and begun to tell me your story.

We had been riding side-by-side for a good ten minutes and I hadn’t noticed you eating your peppermints. I was zoned out in that typical London commuter way: intent on getting to my stop and finally getting home and away from the crowds and noise.

But as soon as you spoke, as soon as your flavour reached me, I forgot about the no talking rule, and I forgot about the quiet sanctuary waiting for me at home. Your voice – your breath – wrapped me up in an insulated bubble; the sweetness of you made me salivate, while the sharper notes gave me an uncommon clarity. I inhaled your breath and I knew how your tongue would taste.

The narrowness of the Tube seats gave us no choice except to sit close. I usually ignored the unbidden pressure of another’s thigh against mine on my journey home, but this evening I shifted my focus directly to it. The heat from your body contrasted deliciously with the coolness of your breath. Safe in our anonymous bubble, I shifted a little closer, leant a little closer, inhaled a little deeper.

When you stopped talking I was suddenly bereft. The scent of your words had been my oxygen supply, making it possible for me to breathe easily in this cocoon we had created. I felt a wave of panic begin to rise as the noise and movement of all the other passengers began to infiltrate our safe space. I felt vulnerable and exposed: too many people, not enough space for me – and you.

My eyes darted to the scrolling sign at the end of the carriage: where were we?

Your voice told me the name of the approaching stop and that one word was enough for me to breathe again. Then your lips were on mine, your peppermint tongue tasted my own, and we were alone again.

The Perfect Ending

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

The fantasy had been running through my head all day like a buzzing film projection on a loop. The images were smoked and fuzzy around the edges and the sound dipped in and out depending on where I was and who I was with. Every so often, in the moments when I found myself alone, the playback froze and I could indulge that particular still in more detail.

I stepped into the screen and really felt myself to be there. My lips tasting the lipstick of your kiss. The whisper of your delicate sighs. The irresistible urge to feel you melt deeper into my embrace until our edges became flowing silk.

My body carried the sensations all day long: an invisible ache that wrapped me in a promise of later, later, wait ‘till you get home, respite will be waiting for you there.

The final bus ride was near torturous as the vibrations from the engine magnified the buzzing hum I’d been carrying in every cell. I walked the last block home without feeling my contact with the ground, my senses now overwhelmed with their own inner kinesis.

Finally, in the shelter of my apartment, I locked the door behind me, stripped off my outside trappings, and lay down.

My hands travelled over my skin as I replayed my favourite fantasy scenes. After the day-long build there was sure to be a thunderous climax.

Except there wasn’t.

There was pleasure. There was heat. And then there was a quiet peaking: the molehill to the mountain of sensation that I’d been feeling throughout the day.

As I gazed at the ceiling through resigned eyes I realised that the true pleasure of this experience wasn’t about the orgasm, it was about savouring the hours and hours of tingles and throbs and aching that had led to this moment. It wasn’t about ‘one moment in time’; it was about the capacity and the pleasure of my body all the time.

And the fantasy?

It’s not over either. The film projection can be rewound, replayed, even rewritten. I can spend a moment or a lifetime. It’s not about the perfect ending after all.

The Good Boy

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I handed the plastic tray back to the air stewardess, most of the food untouched. The movie had finished, it would be a few hours before the next meal was served, and the lights in the cabin were being dimmed. I walked my feet up and down on the spot. If the plane did manage to stay up in the sky for the duration of the flight, and I survived this long-haul ordeal, the last thing I wanted was to arrive in Australia and promptly die of a DVT.

Australia had been a lifelong dream and it had taken me until now, until the grand age of 43, to finally pluck up the courage to get on the plane. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

“You could try and get some valium,” my friend Susie had suggested. “Or take a dirty book – that always takes my mind off the flight.”

I’d gone for her second suggestion and pulled the book I’d borrowed from Susie out of the seat pocket. This had better work. The drone of the plane’s engines filled my head and every slight change in its sound signaled how close we flew to disaster.

As I reached overhead to switch the reading light on, the young guy in the seat next to me did the same. The backs of our hands brushed each other for a second and we were both illuminated in the blue-white spotlights.

He extracted his book and held it in his hands. I glanced across. I saw a well-read, leather-backed book, and long, slender fingers. Then I read the title: The Bible.

As I looked up I noticed that he had also been checking out my choice of reading. The cover of Master at Midnight featured a picture of a woman, head thrown back, neck exposed, with a man’s hand entwined in her hair. I refused to feel embarrassed. This guy was simply a stranger on a plane, in another eight hours we would arrive in Sydney and I’d never see him again. I opened my book and started to read and he did the same.

I hadn’t even got past chapter one when the plane started falling. It suddenly dropped, bumped us in our seats, and then rose again as we hit what the pilot called “a spot of turbulence”. I clutched my book and squeezed my eyes shut. “Please god,” I muttered.

“Are you praying?” His voice was warm and rounded with an upward, Australian inflection.

I opened my eyes. “I’m scared of flying,” I admitted.

“Do you want to hold my hand?” I nodded and his smooth fingers wrapped around my own. The plane stopped bumping. “Better?”

“Thank you,” I went to draw my hand away but he added his other hand over the top, now clasping mine gently.

“Reading helps,” he said motioning to the discarded books in both our laps. “I’ve done this flight a lot, it’s best to find something to distract you.”

“Thank you,” I repeated and he released my hand. We picked up our books again, he opened his but I just help mine in my lap. He looked serene and calm as he read on through the passages of Corinthians. A theology student? I wondered. He didn’t look much older than 21 or 22 and, even in the unflattering, artificial light of the cabin, I could see he had a handsome yet boyish face.

The plane started lurching again and I automatically grabbed at his hand. He held it tightly and, with his free hand, switched off both our overhead lights. “I know something else that helps,” he told me.

“Anything,” I told him, “oh Lord, just make it stop.”

His free hand worked under the blanket that was covering my lap and I felt his thumb rub firmly over the top of my thigh. “Yes?” he paused and waited for me to respond. “All you need to do is just focus on my hand,” he added.

“Yes. Please, yes,” I responded, pulling my concentration away from the bouncing plane and honing in on the sensation of a stranger’s touch. His thumb moved closer and closer to my groin in tight circles. I was still grasping his other hand and felt an invisible line connecting our bodies. As long as he keeps touching me, we’ll be safe. It was an irrational thought, but it was all I had.

His thumb reached my mound and kept on circling. I shifted in my seat to open my thighs and allow him to continue his journey. The circles moved down, working a path along the length of my pussy lips and back up again. He applied consistent pressure and kept to a steady pace. It was hypnotic.

I wriggled a little further down into my seat and felt his thumb make contact with my clit. The layers of fabric between his touch and my flesh were beginning to annoy me. I wanted him to touch me. As if reading my mind, his fingers worked open the button on my jeans and deftly slid down the zip. Now his fingers walked a path underneath the elastic of my knickers and slipped smoothly into the well of moisture he’d created. He stroked me gently and my clit grew hot and swollen.

He soothed and stroked over and over, up and down, and around and around. Every now and then he dipped a finger inside me – just one slender finger dipping in and stroking up.

He held me in this place of languid bliss, making no effort to hurry me to orgasm.

My entire being was poised under his fingertips as he caressed my clit and lips. I relaxed under his touch while my body responded; I grew harder and slicker.

Another dip inside me, a sweep up and over my clit, and I felt my orgasm begin to release. With each touch my body rose higher and higher until I was flying.

He cupped his hand over me and whispered, “It’s okay now.”

Barking at the moon

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I have no idea what phase the moon is in at the moment. Recently the nights have been heavily clouded and rain has run its tears down my window pane. I’ve not seen her for days.

Is she waxing? Waning? Half? Full?

She makes me howl.

She makes me weep.

She casts her glow across my sleeping body, studying me without my consent.

She wakes me in the night and we lie together, barely touching but palpably connected.

Until she slips from me.

Deserting me again.

And I start the day alone.

Where does she go?

To comfort another lover? On the other side of the world?

I miss seeing her face and feeling her cool touch.

I miss studying her, observing her shape and judging her mood.

And yet she never truly leaves me.

She is within me.

Tugging at me.

Filling my breasts and wetting my cunt.

She is relentless.

She gives me no respite.

Even as I sleep.

She comes for me again, and again, and again.

And I come for her: again and again and again.

photo credit: Pezibear on Pixabay

Desire is…

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

Desire is a plant with tendrils that reach and encircle, binding to you, wrapping around you, holding you in their embrace.

Here: desire is wrapped around your heart. You desire to be loved and adored, appreciated and wanted, the most important and beloved one.

Here: desire has woven itself around your soul. Oh to be seen, to be understood, to be known as the true you. A connection of soul to soul. Deep into your core.

Here: desire trails sensuous fingers over your body. Reaching between your thighs. Yes, there, where it feels exquisite and divine. This desire is hunger for touch. And for sweet release.

Desire changes and grows and flowers and dies.

Only for a new seed to take root and find a hold.

Entwining around your heart, your soul, your body; your blossoming joy.

What do you desire?

photo credit: Maike Bergold