Dark

I wanted to fuck in the dark for several reasons.

1. No faces, no memories. Not right now.

2. No interaction based on on what I think he's thinking or I am thinking or doing or experiencing.

3. Body to body combat because he matches me on propensity to fight and the darkness adds complexity and challenge.

That's what I wanted.

And that's what I got.

We fucked for hours, sweat, cum, smeared all over our bodies, heavy whispers, hands, fingers forced into me, teeth and lips and tongues. He wrestled me, I kicked.  He restrained me, I snarled and fought. He fucked me into submission, then when he was on his back, I jumped on him and rode his cock so hard that in holding to him for purchase, I left the imprint of my palms on his collarbone. It was all very good. No complaints.

Except when he switched on the lights. It was a wrong face on a wrong man. 

When the lights are on it gets that simple. 

"I thought you would never see me again after that time", he mused smugly.

"So did I', I replied wearily.

And after all that, I left the room with the face I did not want to see this evening still imprinted on my mind.

Rain

She is a friend of mine. Better than that actually. My Jungian shadow, albeit a a light one to my natural dark expression of me.

We met last weekend to catch up and to film me for a video portrait. She's an artist.

We hang out first. I love hanging out with her for a simple reason that our combined juxstaposed looks and personalities attract people and the world seems such an open place with her there.

She's all woman, with a shock of curly dark hair, dreamy brown eyes and pillowy lips, set in a pale face. Her body is soft and curvaceous, with her gorgeously heavy breasts accentuating her nipped in waist, melting beautifully into the curve of her buttocks. A see through wrap on her shoulders, draped over her strappy top, barely covers her cleavage. Imagined naked she looks like a nude from an erotic Edwardian postcard.

I am athletic, tanned, strong and wily with piercing blue eyes, short platinum blonde hair and high cheekbones. I am wearing a black backless body suit with a pair of tight white shorts, like a well-groomed suburban housewife with a head full of perverse scenarios, about to start a class with her tennis coach who is also her lover.

We banter with strangers, do an impromptu session with a new trendy cafe owner on how to best market his new joint, we laugh and luxuriate in each others' company. We are a dream team.

We finally head to mine for the shoot when the monsoon rain hits. We run through the deluge laughing maniacally and get drenched within seconds. When we stop under a tree for a moment, giddy and out of breath, she looks at me and says in her exacting yet soft German accent:

"Look at your nipples! I can see your body all the way through. If I were a man, I'd drag you to this garden and fuck you right now"
 

I look at her hair, with droplets of rain caught in the curl, the shawl clinging to her white skin and I feel like I want to kiss her.
Instead I take her hand and we run out into the rain again.

Embrace

I love the way he holds me.

And he holds me a lot. 

When I'm in his arms and I feel at ease. It's a strange feeling. I don't want to struggle or bolt. I just want to be there, in the strong, soft and comforting space, feeling his hard muscular body against mine. There is not an inch of spare flesh on him - just long, graceful lines of his body, with his broad chest and beautifully shaped snakey hips pressed into me.

We fleet around each other, his closeness being constant when I am around. I reach out for him quite comfortably, without fear of rejection or inappropriateness of my gesture. And so does he. We dance together, jumping around to some mad electro swing, touching briefly and then losing ourselves again.

He takes me into his arms when we say goodbye and I place my hand, flatly and squarely on his chest. And it is not a gesture of defence but one of affection. I want to feel his heart for a moment.

He strokes the back of my neck in return. 

'Sorry, I am sweaty from all that dancing', I say looking up, not really being sorry.

'It doesn't matter'

And I know it doesn't. I have a feeling he may like my sweat. In the same way he likes holding me.

We haven't even kissed yet. I am looking forward to it.

The awakening. Again.

I wake up. In a hazy no man's land of my mind, I am not yet awake, but not asleep. I turn sleepily on my back and, for the first time in weeks, I feel the need.

I stretch, arch, and let my legs fall open.

As my hand delves in between the lips of my pussy, I let my fingers test myself carefully. I'm wet, ready, slippery, fresh and warm.

I am thinking of nothing or nobody in particular; faces, bodies floating through my mind. The Lover's face appears for a moment then fades away. Then The Teacher's heavy whisper burning my cheek slowly retreating. And Boy's beautiful hands, as I see them, caressing my nipples. My lovers, past and future, in a parade of pictures, sounds and possibilities.

Then just nothing again. Just me and the sensation as I  stroke myself very leisurely, my fingertips teasing a slow beautifully sating long orgasm from the swollen fleshiness of my clit.

Then I open my eyes.

I am awake again at last. All alone and strangely happy.

The small of my back

Him and me are casual acquaintances. We've known each other a year or so and bump into each other every now and again. More often now that he's local. He always invites me out to one party or another. I always decline. 

He's tall, with long graceful limbs, and elongated muscles. With his slender, languid charm, he reminds me of a greyhound, but rather than being nervy, he's warm and easy.

When we meet we always hug. He holds me quite tight this time and for a bit longer than usual, rocking me in his arms. I notice the change but it feels good and natural so I let him do it.

As he slowly lets go of me, his hand slides into the small of my back. Taken by surprise, I respond immediately, almost involuntarily by arching for just a split second. It's like he just pressed my internal button.

We then chat leisurely, him bent over the counter, me on the other side, leaning forward. His hair is messy and thrown all to one side as he tries to sweep it from his eyes, and it touches mine. I am oddly relaxed and notice how I am not even being flirtatious, like I don't see the need to switch on my famous charm. I am just being... natural.

He's putting my number into his phone arranging an outing, and we are giggling stupidly over the cool features.

'Yeah I know... fell of my bike" he says out of the blue.

"Sorry?"

"You are looking at my hands...", he flexes his bruised knuckle.

Then I realise I am looking at his hands. Staring at them and taking them in. And that's always a sign that I want someone.

As I leave, I turn around. He's still looking at me.

I walk away and then I get hit with the full realisation that I do want him and I stop to think. The small of my back, my little barometer of desire, never lies.