Bedroom windowsill

I lean forward, hands on the thick painted white windowsill, feet spread slightly on the hardwood of the floor. My head is down, as the night air fills the curtains … framing the open sash and my hair falling in long, simple waves.

Eyes closed, I listen to the night voices of the city. I feel the air on my arms, the back of my neck, down my spine, and, thinking about it, I shiver. Opening my eyes I see my breasts, my spread thighs and you, sitting on the edge of the bed, still clothed, elbows on knees and looking at what I am showing you.

II lean forward, hands on the thick painted white windowsill, feet spread slightly on the hardwood of the floor. My head is down, as the night air fills the curtains … framing the open sash and my hair falling in long, simple waves.

Eyes closed, I listen to the night voices of the city. I feel the air on my arms, the back of my neck, down my spine, and, thinking about it, I shiver. Opening my eyes I see my breasts, my spread thighs and you, sitting on the edge of the bed, still clothed, elbows on knees and looking at what I am showing you.

I smile at you, upside down, looking up from under my arm, my hair hanging down to touch the sill, there by the window, and you smile back at me.

You move behind me now; my lips part when your hand snakes around my side and presses into my belly. The other hand slides up my spine to the back of my neck, to the back of my head; pushing it down so that I will see your hand on my belly as it moves between my legs and . . .

“Oh …”

That hand has often caressed me in my dreams and has known me like my own. Fingers sliding into the slipperiness between the warm lips start our hearts racing. My breath comes in short exhalations … whimpering pleasure and relief with every breath.

My body gasps. Your hand moves. Your fingers draw out the wetness from the lips between my legs and up my belly … leaving a long moist trail between my breasts to the hollow at the base of my throat, to my chin, lower lip. And as I take your fingers into my mouth, in between my teeth, the touch of my tongue makes you laugh in my ear.

Tasting of myself on your fingertips, I push against the windowsill, feeling your erection constrained by your trousers … pressing into my bottom. “Take me,” I moan. Your other hand pulls down the zipper and flicks out the button and the trousers fall in wrinkles down to your ankles.

Oh yes …. inside, from behind … you are inside me. My feet planted firmly apart now. Deep inside, you are a part of my own wet pink flesh. Sliding back … with you it’s like making love to myself, I can feel you so fully. You make love to me like I would make love to myself.

“Ah … don’t .. stop … don’t stop! ”

Your hands are on my hips, holding me still, sometimes moving me, you touch me so very deep – it’s a place hidden so far up inside of me that it is the unreachable epicenter of myself, the secret of my femaleness and it has only to be touched – by you – to send me – all of me, there. I am going there now, not out of my body, but in. My eyes half-closed … like the eyes of memory. You grow inside me, or I tighten around you, the sensation is the same.

For me, the giddy spinning convulsions of orgasm never matter when I am with you. Because it is and always has been and always will be this which satisfies me with every sliding instant – every frozen moment full of you. And I always come with you, and it never has been an end, but the moment that signaled the beginning of the next time we would consummate this passion.

You pull back, slide out of me. You glisten in the moonlight at the window, and I stand. You turn me and we embrace, your wet penis pressing up against my belly. My hands explore the surface of your back, lean and strong, and down to your butt … as I sink to my knees and your penis points the way up my body, between my breasts; then I take it in my hand, the freshly painted fingernails of my middle finger and thumb just meeting, pulling my lips back and filling my mouth with you. I concentrate with animal like preoccupation on the head of your penis. My full, so-red lips pull back as my head moves in a trancelike motion and my hand follows, slipping moistly along the length of it.

Your penis in my warm mouth, in and out, your head thrown back, breathing fast. I pull back suddenly, unsheathing you, still wet, and shake my head side to side; my hair whips across my mouth and clings to my lips and your hand is on my cheek, sliding back under the hair sticking to my mouth and pulling it back behind my ear. Your hand behind my head pulls me up to you, to fill your need to embrace me.

So I stand and rub the length of my body against the length of your wet penis and you run your tongue up under my lips. Lifting me, a hand under each spread thigh, and slide me down onto you, you transfix me smoothly, and carry me – high, my hands on your shoulders, your mouth at my neck – to the wall by the bed. My ankles cross behind you, my thighs ride on your hips. Your body holds me there, nothing else, hard against the wall and your hands take mine and raise them high and apart. Palm to palm.

“Tell me everything,” I whisper.

“It’s like creation,” you breathe. “Like a plow rutting through the dewiest darkest soil of the earth. And you and I are the same, we’re the male and female that God split from the one, and we are destined to be apart and come together. You kiss me against the wall. I unlock my ankles and lower my legs and you lift me up and off of you; I put my hands against your chest and push you back to the bed, giving you a shove. Your legs buckle as you fall back on the bedspread.

I stand there at the edge of the bed and you can see that the silky hair between my legs is wet, glistening with pendant drops of dew. As I put one knee on the bed, then the other, straddling you, I take your straining erection in my hand. Fist around your penis, I lower myself over the end and off again, on … off … on, rubbing you against my clit, using you with childlike indulgence, then in – all the way – to touch that place.

On your back and I am riding you fast. From the waist up I could be dancing – but a primitive, lazy-necked, closed-eye, smiling dance like they dance in the islands. I fall forward suddenly in giddy exhaustion, my hands landing deep in the mattress on either side of your head. My hair falls into your face, strands of it sticking to the sweat on my brow. I stare into your eyes, and you know I see everything there is about you. Every thought, feeling and purpose, everything that’s genuine and everything that’s false, all the guilt and all the innocence. I know all this. I know too much.

You lift yourself deep into me. I open my eyes and smile down at you. You pull me to you and roll over on top of me, pull yourself out of me and kiss my breasts, massage my nipples, one after the other, between the tip of your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Down my belly, you lick and tickle the lips of my sex and press your tongue up against my clit. Your eyes look up from under your brows at my stomach rising and falling in uneven breaths, and quivering now, I am gasping, making unintelligible sounds.

I am so close now and you grin … there between my legs. What could please you more than moving me? If every day you could bring me there, grasp me by the soul and guide me to that long moment of involuntary ecstasy and feel the little tremors that your touch plays into me, bring me daily to that place inside of ourselves. All despair ends there, vanishes in the lifetime we live together on nights like this – mornings and late afternoons past.

You move slowly up from inside my thighs and lay your body down with care along the length of me. Plunge in your penis as deep as it will go. I inhale your own breath through my smile as all my strength brings itself to bear, and I tighten myself around you and over you. Your arms around my back pull me to you, almost inside you.

My eyes are closed so tight. I am holding the feeling with all my might. It’s the beginning. “Are you all right?” you say, so close to my face. “I love you.

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