Mindfuck

zara's picture

I think of him often.

Sometimes snatches of visions. Seeing his hands on my knees, running up the length of my thighs, parting my legs. He grins at me knowingly when he does this. I grin back in much the same fashion.

Other times the thoughts are more in depth. Entire scenes playing out from beginning to end, dialog running. There is a familiarity amongst our movements in these times. As if we've known each other forever and our tics are well worn on one another. A hand and a glove, fitting together as if there were no other place that we belonged.

Sometimes I can almost feel his touch when my mind is working out these mental snapshots. A warmth at the back of my neck as he rests his hand upon it, us walking along side each other. I feel his weight as I wrap my arm around his waist and we stride in tandem.

Once I pictured him asking me what time it was. I never answered and he never questioned again. It was simply a statement to make. A bizarre rhetorical question.

It was OUR time. There was no need for a verbal affirmation of the facts.

He questions me softly sometimes, his meaning lurking between the lines. A quiet begging for an ego stroking. If I tell him the truth, I will indeed appease that need within him. I worry about letting him have so much power over me. He could ask me to do almost anything and I would be willing. It's a scary thought process for me.

I've never felt so completely lost in a person before. I've never stopped long enough to want to give that much power over to anyone. It is a leap of faith, believing that I can do so and not have my trust taken advantage of.

He has me 99% convinced that this would be possible.

Allowing someone into my body is my offering. It is not something I give as freely as is naturally assumed. I am honest with all of my lovers, even the most fleeting of ones. You have my permission. Do not abuse your privilege. Do so and you become nothing to me.

Even more rare is my gift of allowing a lover to spill forth within me. I have given it to only three within my cluster of partners. My first love, my first insane love and my conceding love. No others have bathed with the combined juices while nestled inside.

I consider it the ultimate honour that I can bestow. It is precious, that bit of trust that I offer. He would be the fourth.

This afternoon I imagined The Visit. I've imagined The Visit several times, in different locales, with different beginnings, middles and endings. I refer to it as The Visit because I understand that our meeting would most likely account for nothing more. I would not be able to stay with him. I would not be able to keep him.

It is torture, knowing that our meeting would account for nothing more than a scheduled time slot on the TV programming that is our lives.

I have yet to ever envision the goodbye. I don't think I can bring myself to it. Not yet, at least.

This afternoon, I came close. I saw us on the bed, spooned together, still fully clothed. A night of recklessness dried in an even coat on our skin, woven through the strands of our hair. His breath, dense and hot with the stench of alcohol, rolling across my cheek.

I wriggle free and escape to the bathroom. I peel off the layers and step naked under the water. I cleanse myself of the residue, but not of the memories. I smile with my eyes closed, feeling the water run down my neck and shoulders.

When I emmerge, I wrap myself in a towel and head back to the bed. He rouses slightly, just enough to reach over and pull the tightly bound towel loose. His fingers slide across my still damp belly and down between my thighs. He sighs contentedly as he probes a finger deep inside of me.

I lay still, face pointed upward, eyes closed to the ceiling. I feel connected with him at this point, bound together through finger and cunt. The thought makes me grow wetter. Against my hip I can feel him pressing urgently, even through his clothes.

I sit up slightly and he withdraws his hand. I tug at his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing me to help him out of it. I straddle his hips, pull at his belt, yank down his jeans. His cock is hard and forms a tent under the material of his boxers. I pull those down next, watching him spring forth.

In a fluid motion, I lift up and slide down onto him. He fills me up completely. I rock and sway, thrilling to the pressure that his cock exerts on the inner walls of my pussy. He rests his hands lightly on my hips, satistfied to let me do all the work. And I do so with the greatest of joy.

It is mere minutes before he wraps an arm around my back and pulls me down suddenly. My wet hair cascades around his face, encircling us. He reaches his hands up and takes my head in them, his thumbs on my cheekbones, his other fingers curled along my jawline.

He opens his eyes for a split second. They are glassy and blue and contain a flash of sadness. A flash quickly masked as his lids slam down and his hips slam upward. I can feel the pulse of his cock as he cums inside me. I can feel the warm wave of his cum as it hits my cervix.

I can feel him as he leaves a part of himself within me, both physically and to a lesser degree, spiritually.

I roll off of him and fix my stare on the ceiling, with eyes open this time. He curls at my side and slides his palm across my belly again. His cock is softening against my hip now, sticky and rapidly cooling.

We lay still for an immeasurable amount of time. He announces that he should take a shower. I nod. He pauses before pulling away.

He tells me he loves me. Three words that have been spoken the entire world round by countless numbers of people in countless numbers of situations. Ours is no more different and no more special.

But, of course, it doesn't feel that way.

As he slips into the bathroom, I sit up and robotically begin dressing. I button buttons, zip zippers, tie shoelaces. I tiptoe out of the hotel room and start down the hall.

I am running after a few steps.

I am crying after a few strides.

I am left with a dryness in my mouth in my reality. The daydream is over.

It scares me.

Because life is always far more cruel than our fantasies. Life is far more unfair than any of our dreams.

Reality is a bitch. I am its whore.

Comments

cheekie's picture

Beautiful! --Ability in

Beautiful!

--Ability in itself is nothing when denied opportunity!! Bessos!

mistylou69's picture

Wow!

That was amazing writing, my dear. Simply Amazing!

xxxoooxxx
Misty

life experience

I think that most of us that have lived long enough, have felt like this at one time or another. I know I have several times. You write well, and have a very special way of getting it down on paper. I think that this would also be great if you tried to minimize it, as a group of thoughts. Adding dramatic pauses to emphasize. It is great as is though, just some thoughts for you to consider.

That is one sexy fuck! Why

That is one sexy fuck!

Why the sad end to the fantasy? or is it a memory?

- Sometimes I think Yosarian and Candide were my best friends in the world. Every day I miss 'em more and more. One day I'll pick 'em up again. Only problem is they get to be repetitive. Then again, doesn't everybody? -

-- http://blog.myspace.com/blackjoshua

hmmm...

hmmm...

Great, as always =)

Great, as always =)

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