Press palm to palm. He comes up behind you, an arm snaking around your waist, warm breath at the nape of your neck.
“Kiss me,” he says.
It’s like the gravity of the sun, pulling you in. Mouth to mouth. You turn, belly to belly. Breast to breast. Heart to heart.
It was that peaceful time of day when I would find things to get into. After the high-school had let out, but before all of the grown-ups were home from work.
I was wearing my favorite sundress, white with purple flowers. I felt the light fabric flutter with each step towards him.I watched my own tanned thighs from beneath my sunglasses as they alternated, peeking out from my mid-thigh hemline. I felt golden. Beautiful. Almost powerful, with the attention my body could provoke.
The afternoon was warm with an almost-too-bright sky. Not a cloud. He was sun-kissed and squinting on a bench in the empty park perimeter. I stepped in front of the sun and cast a shadow over him. My diaphanous dress lit up with a sunshine halo around me. I wanted him to notice. Could he see through it a little, I wondered?
He squinted up at me, then looked away coolly, to pop a cassette in his boom box. The sounds of Led Zeppelin whirred to life, with the first words of Staircase to Heaven a little distorted, until the tape caught solidly.
Even on a warm day he wore his jean jacket. I wanted to peel it off of him. I wanted to kiss his neck. I didn’t know how to tell him all the things I wanted from him, so I tried to advertise, as best I could, what I had to offer. My hair cascading down around my shoulders. My wedge-cork sandals emphasizing my calves. My lips glossed and smelling of artificial strawberry.
He got up and grazed me as he passed, sat on a swing, then looked at me. He smiled with half of his mouth, and I felt a tingle all over. He put his hand on his thigh, and the other hand out a little, beckoning. I walked over and looked at his face, locking eyes momentarily. I turned around, lifted my arms to grasp the chains and hopped into his lap. I could smell a mixture of some over-powering spiced cologne, that was trying a bit too hard, and cigarettes.
He scooted back a bit in the swing, making room for my bottom to cradle into the alcove his body made for me. He pushed back hard on the dusty layer of hard-packed dirt and we went backwards. My stomach flopped and my heart pounded. We flew forward and his legs straightened, and mine with them–my dress fluttered revealing the upper parts of my thighs. We pumped, swaying. My bottom pressed hard into the landscape of his lap. I could feel his hardness through his jeans, and I liked it. I didn’t want to ever stop swinging. I laughed and he let out a small laugh too.
My hair blew into his face, and his jacket sleeves kept rubbing against the thinner, more tender skin near my exposed underarms and the side-swells of my breasts. I wished it was his bare arms, instead. As we swung, centrifugal force pressed me harder against him, and my nipples bumped out in excitement. Gooseflesh covered my body as I leaned back and closed my eyes.
He slowly stopped pumping until the swing was still. We both were breathing almost normal when he took his hands off of the chains and put them around my waist. He squeezed a little then put his lips to the curve between my neck and my shoulder, and lightly kissed it. Then he helped me to the ground, where I wobbled for a moment. He hopped up to steady me and cracked a big smile as I tried to catch my balance. It was a sweet, genuine smile–one I’d never seen on him before. It warmed my heart and made me want to kiss his mouth.
Once I was steady, he walked back over to the bench and sat down. He pulled some sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on.
“See you later, Ophelia.” My knees weakened. I didn’t even realize he knew my name.
As relaxed as I could manage, I said, “Bye, Josh.” And I walked slowly and carefully away, letting him enjoy the view as I went, my high wedges helping with the sway.
I don’t know if I would undo it if I could. Your shirts are here. And your toothbrush with the fancy nubby side. I actually folded socks today (not my specialty). They weren’t mine. That’s how you know I care.
When you lift your head and put your feet on the cold hard floor, I swoop in and grab your favorite pillow, hook my arm around it and pull it in tight. I watch your naked back bend forward, the valley of your spine is perfect and I reach out and run a finger down.
You wipe the sleep and look over your shoulder, peeking through a mop of messy hair.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Me too.”
It doesn’t matter who said which, because we trade off these sentences, depending on what day it is.
I don’t know what force on this earth got to decide what love is or how it manifests, but I know what it is for me. Love is in the Don McLean song that crackles out the same line every morning, “The auctioneer saaaaaaaaid, I’m not through yet…” from your alarm clock. Love is around the edges of your iris, where light brown gives way to hazel. Love is in scrambled eggs and toast next to the window, on a single plate with two forks.
“I like ketchup on mine, do you?”
And now, even after what happened, we’re still here and maybe a little less sorry about it than the two years that followed, because love can also be an opportunity to choose somebody every day. We keep making that choice. I can’t undo it, so I will take solace in this.
I haven’t managed a Sensual Sunday in a while. The last several months have been crazy. Here is a warm-up. Wonder if I have more than one in me.
****
Sitting on the boards of that ancient wooden porch. “I think this thing is held together by memory in some places.”
We shared an ice cream, soft and dripping in midday swelter. I chose vanilla, but we got an extra scoop of Chai because you thought that might be more exciting. They blended perfectly together, actually.
“Lick from the bottom up. There, at the vanilla – then up to the chai.”
“That really is a good combination.”
“Is it summer yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Sure feels like it.”
“Yeah.”
I haven’t been able to keep up with the blog lately. Sunday sensual musings is something that I don’t have the luxury of at the moment. But I came across this tonight and thought it would fit well into my Sensual Sunday theme. I wrote this poem several years ago during a sad time of my life, but one that still had sensual moments that I couldn’t help but hold close.
My pulse is flexing flesh on my wrist
My bones are still
and the scent of you clings
to my mouth
my thighs
the soft dark shock of hair holds you
close
keeping what remains
in my tangles
in my hollows
I don’t want to breathe
I don’t want to be awake
Everything, even the shadows hold fast – for a beat
And my pulse seems to slow
The world is still in my heart
but I know that the sun will climb
then sink
and the moon will take its place
the shadows will shift
and the ants will crawl
but I don’t want to breathe
I don’t want to move
I don’t want to feel my heart beating
until it is beating next to yours…
We lie in a puddle of light. The earth on my back. Dirt, grass, dandelions, crushed under my weight. And your weight pressing down, again and again. I look up, your hair like a halo of sunshine. Your chin is high, too far from my mouth to kiss. So, I follow, with my eyes, the contour from your chin, along your jawline, to earlobe, to collarbone. Pale, almost as the bone beneath the flesh. I lift my head to fasten my lips over the protrusion on your landscape. I then press my tongue into the hollow near your throat and you moan. I close my eyes and lay back. Rays warm my face and nothing else exists but you and me and this union in the sun.
Sensual Sunday is a weekly sensual micro-story, poem or word association. It’s mostly sexy writing practice. I encourage others to do Sensual Sunday – share your links with me!
****
This is a bit longer than a micro-story so we’ll just call it a short story. This is in the erotica category, so it’s NSFW. It is a rough draft. I have not gone through to do edits. I am still working on tense shifting, so I try hard these days not to shift tense in the first draft, but I have yet to manage that feat. I am sure somewhere in this story there are improper tense shifts. I can’t promise that I won’t go through and edit something if I see it later and it bothers the hell out of me. But part of these Sensual Sunday writing exercises is to push outside of my comfort zone. And leaving barely edited work hanging out there is definitely outside of my comfort zone.
Do you have any special writing exercises? Do you have a blog where you practice? I’d love to hear from you!
****
Lindy straightened her hat and stepped onto the train, a dainty gloved hand extended to the conductor. She placed one perfectly heeled white pump onto the first large step and felt her dress catch a draft and fly out behind her. She let out a little yelp and the conductor quickly saved her reputation by swatting the hem back towards her calves.
“Thank you,” she said, demurely. He simply nodded and touched the brim of his hat.
The train was mostly empty and it would be a long ride to Memphis from Sacramento, so once in the back she opened her small suitcase and fished for the bodice ripper her older sister had insisted she take along. She looked around, saw only a couple of passengers at least six rows up, grasped the book like a child thieving from the cookie jar and tucked it behind her back. She snapped the metal clasps closed with two satisfying pops and slunk down into her seat.
Proper young unmarried ladies just didn’t read this sort of thing. But she would be married in a few days’ time and she wanted to be prepared for the wedding night. Her mother never prepared her for the “big night” and her sister did her best to explain things. But Cora said the book would give her more detailed descriptions of what to expect. She crossed her legs, cheated her body towards the window and hunkered over the pulp as she began to read the first pages. It was long before the pirate in the story was popping a maiden’s bodice with his cutlass.
These scenes were full of words that Lindy had never seen before, but she somehow knew exactly what they meant. She devoured each page like a rich, sinful bon-bon. After a solid hour of reading, Lindy began to grow restless. She felt herself swell a number of times throughout the pages. At one point she gasped out loud. She kept shifting in her seat, trying to simultaneously ignore and relieve the ache.
After several hours of reading and the light failing, she left her car to use the lady’s room. She tidied up her dampness, feeling somewhat silly and sexy somehow. She splashed some cold water on the back of her neck and took a few deep breaths. She chided herself for allowing her hormones to get carried away, but she also couldn’t wait to get back to her seat to finish the book. She even took it to the lady’s room, only – of course – because she didn’t want anybody to find it. In all honesty, she couldn’t bear to put it down.
On her return one of the doors popped open and a man, tall and handsome and probably ten years older than she was, emerged. He was wearing a white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. A royal blue tie with green diamonds, loosened and his top button was undone. They almost collided.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said. His voice as rich as molasses. Eyes as green as emeralds. She looked down at his left hand. No ring.
Lindy felt herself start to perspire, even though the car was pleasantly cool for June. She smiled at him and pressed herself against a bit of wall as he started to squeeze by. As he did she put her hand on his torso and said, “It’s a long trip to Memphis.”
His forehead creased and he tilted his head to the side, as if trying to figure her out. He looked down at her and smiled a crooked grin and nodded, “Yes, it is.”
She held up the novel she’d been reading, a pirate on the front with a woman in a chemise draped artistically over his arm, both of them with windswept hair, the title in a lusty shade of red shouted out from the cover, Pirate Plunders Pink Pearls.
“I…I brought this book to read.” She took a deep breath and held is gaze. Her chest rising and falling and the sound of the train beginning to sound muffled the world became a single focal point – his mouth.
His face flushed. His breathing stopped for a moment. She saw his body give an almost imperceptible shiver. He let out a long breath. “Is there something I can help you with?”
She opened his compartment door, which was strewn with books and papers, turned to him and backed into it. “I can’t…you know…I can’t do everything. But I’m…well, you know. I’m getting married in a few days and I just…I want to, well…have, well, I’m kind of restless, on account of reading this book. Do you think you can help me?”
He stepped into the compartment and shut the door behind him. For a moment Lindy felt a trapped, and like she could be murdered and it would serve her right for doing something so sinful. But she was drunk with hormones and want and in a few short days she could never have sex with anybody else again. It was making all her proper pearly buttons pop.
It wasn’t long, though, before her mouth was on his and her hands were inside of his shirt, feeling all of his firm, smooth flesh. They kept their mouths pressed together as he pulled off his shirt. She pulled away to watch him remove his pants and as he took down his shorts his cock sprung forward. She gasped out loud a felt a little faint. It was longer than she thought it would be and bouncing and swaying as it stuck straight out from his body.
“Sit down,” she said. He swiped away papers and books and did as she commanded. He settled onto the cushioned portion of the first class seat.
As he watched, Lindy kicked off her shoes. She put a leg up next to him and unhooked her garter, then the other side. She pulled off the stockings and tossed them behind her, floating down like feathers, resting onto the bench seat behind her. She grinned and locked eyes with him as she reached under her dress and pulled down her panties and stepped out of them. She stepped towards him, pushing him to lean back a little and she straddled him, resting her slit along his erect cock, sandwiching it between them. The length of him was nestled in her cleft. She unbuttoned the top portion of her dress as he pushed it down around her shoulders. He nestled his face into her ample cleavage as he reached around back to remove the significant undergarment. The elastic relaxed after the popping of the fasteners and she tossed the brazier aside, holding her arms up, she let them swing free.
He looked at her, as if in awe at her rosy nipples and the beautiful milky orbs that they decorated. He hefted the glorious weight of them in his hands, cupping and lifting and repeating, as if he could never do it enough times. This made her swell so greatly between her legs she thought she might burst like an overripe berry. Skin splitting. Juices running all over. She was slick with want and began to rub back and forth against the length of his hardness. He cupped and suckled and rubbed and moaned as she pressed her hands hard against the wall behind him. The motion of the train added to the rocking motion of their rhythm.
She could feel the lust rise in her like never before and couldn’t have stopped rubbing if the train derailed. She felt as if a force of nature, as if an animal acting on instinct, her hips compelled to slide her wetness, her soft downy cleft along him. She was attached to him. Tingles ran up her spine, to her nipples, to her mound, train sounds, his hands, his mouth, all a jumble, dizzying as she rocked and rocked until she heard herself yelling and felt her thighs clasp and her spine make an arch over him as she spasmed and she felt silent, even though her mouth was wide to continue her cries.
At this moment she felt his legs tense and his body lean into hers as he thrust his hips upwards. He pushed up her skirt again, and they both watched as his seed erupted over his belly, some making it almost as far as his neck.
They were both panting as she dismounted and sat next to him. He wiped away his semen with a handkerchief and put his arm around her as she nestled into his chest where she fell asleep. He soon was sleeping, too.
Sensual Sunday is a weekly sensual micro-story, poem or word association. It’s mostly sexy writing practice. I encourage others to do Sensual Sunday – share your links with me!
****************************
Spring Forward
Springing, showing, sliding, slipping, slowly
Budding, blooming, bouncing, bobbing,
Out, obediently, outrageously, obsessed
Popping, pink, purple, passion, persist
Firming, fragile, fractured, forward, facing
Poking, pouncing, pounding, poking, perspire
Dangling, dancing, dappled, delicious, dizzying
Tempting, touching, tearing, turgid, tenacious, temple
Worship, watching, wishing, wincing, warping
Rocking, rolling, rising, reeling
Swelling, spurting, shooting, streaming
Careening, calling, calming, collapsing
Serenely, softly, sleeping, spent, sated
Half a glass of garnet colored wine on a sunlit table.
Childhood photos; blues fading leaving yellow to paint a thousand words.
Piles of chocolate chips collapsing softly into a rich molten puddle.
Freshly laundered sheets– snapping them open and stretching taught over the mattress.
The drape of a bias cut silk dress on a beautiful woman.
The smell of woodsmoke in my hair.
Steam rising from the roadway pavement after a cool summer rain.
Strawberry decorations on vintage juice glasses.
The way a diagonally cut sandwich triangle fits nicely in our hand and the satisfying first bite on the edge of the center of the longest plane.
The satisfying click of an pen lid snapping into place.
Glass marbles in a jar.
Sensual Sunday is a weekly sensual observation or short story.
He bought me a candy apple. The kind with the hard glossy coating and I smiled coyly as he presented it to me. It was fancy, for a carnival apple, wrapped elegantly with a bow closing it at the top. I stuck my finger inside one of the red and white gingham loops and traced it with my finger. I twirled one of the loose ends and tugged, popping the ribbon free. He held his hand out and I dropped it into his palm, as though it were a pair of my panties. As he watched, I peeled the sticking wrapper away from the treat, enjoying the crinkle of the genuine cellophane. My smile was toothy and joyful now, as I felt my teasing kitten routine falter for a moment. As soon as I put tongue to the apple’s sweet coating, I turned my eyes up at him. He smiled, proud he’d pleased me. I thought about kneeling right there on the pavement and unzipping his jeans. Pulling him out and putting candy apple kisses all over it. My tender knees on the bumpy biting asphalt. People stopping to stare. Couples getting turned on and rushing home to fuck each others’ brains out. I ran my lips across the damp sticky lollipop surface and stepped in to kiss him. We stood there, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy, the lights and whirling sounds and chatter of people all around us. He pressed against me so hard I thought I would fall over. I could feel him hard, right through his jeans, and I was aching to touch him there. We held each other tightly as he licked the sticky cherry flavoring from my lips. He’s usually a shy boy, so he pulled away when he noticed people stopping, furrowing their brows and giving us disapproving looks. Not much later that evening we would sneak into my basement rec-room while my parents slept innocently two floors above us.
H.L. Brooks 