She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell.
-Elvis Costello, She
Sometimes you write the thing. For Amy (and her Catsuit)
I can’t think straight.
I can think in curves though.
In the undulation of hips and the swell of breasts. In the soft security of her belly.
I had a dream last night. This is a version of it.
I’m lying on my stomach in the shallow end of the pool. It’s barely a pool really, it’s a complex – a simulated beach with a funfair thrown on top, I am hidden far away but still the screams of children hurtling along the chutes and slides above my head filters through. It is hardly peaceful here.
Still, I am alone. I am serene. I half-know what is going to happen as I lie in the gentle waves, pert bum sticking out of the water, breasts thrusts out of my two piece swimming costume. As I am thinking about this, They arrive. Two men, the handsome, gregarious, laddy type. Thick around the neck and upper body, they approach me, talking amongst themselves but looking over again and again.
“Look at those tits.” one says, talking at me, not to me. He has dark hair. There are noises of agreement.
It’s been so long since I sucked a dick I think I might have forgotten how to do it.
I’ll reach out my hand towards the imaginary cock and recreate the warmth and specific softness of a burgeoning erection, heavy and magical in my palm.
To begin, I trace my thumb from the base up to the head, glistening in the harsh bedroom light. Then I’ll follow that same journey with the flat of my tongue and this will trigger his long exhalation of breath.
That there are, at this very moment, molecules of me in your atmosphere, makes me laugh.
If you reach into your handbag, sitting innocently on the passenger seat, you are within millimetres of me, of my cunt. Of the time I sat, dripping wet and writhing with anxious arousal, with my bare backside nestled neatly next to him as he drove us home. This I know, but you do not.
For Amy and Jadis
“Be mean to me.” She begged one evening, during a pillow fight. Ember was towering over her, the floral pillowcase above her head blocking out the big bedroom light. He already had her pinned down to the bed by her wrists so Ember could aim the downy marshmallow directly at her soft, downy stomach.
“We are being mean to you, silly.”