Locus

HIM. HER. SPACE. SCENT.

Watch her make her way through the room, easily a head taller than all the other women. Notice her perfect little dress cinched at the waist crease and straighten with every step. Every man is staring at her from the corner of their eyes. Gorge on her as she oozes effortless sexuality. Watch their dates boil with jealousy. She is oblivious to the power she wields, how her body speaks even though her mouth is firmly shut. Her lush hair singing in little rustles as it brushes against the lilac satin dress. The perfection of straight svelte pantyhosed legs in perfectly structured platform heels, crossed over each other on a high stool. Oval nails on surgeon fingers daintily holding a petite cup of tea to rouged lips; pinkie extended perfectly. Smouldering black eyes peeking from under Kohled lids, taking in the room and dismissing it. The absence of a man’s hand on the small of her back, a subtle but powerful taunt. She is sin and longing, hatred and envy, naivete and sensuality, and totally disinterested.

“The usual.” He says, pushing a pristine note the way of the bartender. A flannel shirt over a rugged tee and flat front chinos on rugged boots. Tousled hair, three day stubble on perfectly dimpled cheeks. Pretty eyes, almost feline but not quite. On anyone else it’d look slightly off but on him… She’s intrigued, but only slightly. A glass is pushed back, it’s instantly recognisable, the telly tumbler. Avant garde. She sits a little straighter. He fishes out a circular ice cube with his straw, puts it between his lips and sucks it in. Her diaphragm contracts involuntarily as her breath catches. The glass empties slowly, sloshing the brew in his mouth, savouring the tang of the citrus and the kick of alcohol. Her cup goes cold on the counter top, her mind elsewhere. Mid sip he notices her, and pauses, stares into her defiant eyes and holds her gaze. His eyes travel, They sojourn past her face, to the pockets of her dress and the globes of soft flesh that fill them, to her tiny waist and the swell of her hips. A stolen glance back at her eyes to see if she’s watching and then to those legs that slowly unfold and extend themselves for his perusal. Her feet touch the ground and a sheaf of notes are hastily pushed to cover the bill. The pawns are set into motion.

STACCATO. CRESCENDO. FIN. DA  CAPO  AL  FINE.

His? hers? Neither is sure. What matters is that a key fit into a lock. They tumble into the room and continue their torrid kiss. She reaches for the switch by the door but he pulls her hand onto his head and she latches on. She nudges his lower lip with hers, taunting him to take charge, baiting him to take her. He plants a kiss on her upper lip. It’s slightly protuded, the perfect double arch of a cupid’s bow. A complement to his full lower lip. She tilts to his left and raises herself with his grip on his hair, their lips never losing contact, sucking, slurping. Their tongues touch when their teeth part with each tide. His hands travel up her thighs, gathering her dress slowly, the satin increasing her arousal. His hand reaches past her velvety thighs to her moist panty line. She shudders and shifts her hips so his fingers feel her moistness. Their lips part only momentarily as the dress passes over her head and outstretched arms and she reaches for his flannel and rip the buttons apart. She dives for him, pulling him to herself, grinding her lips against his.

With a hand firmly gripping each buttock, he carries her to the kitchen table and gently deposits her there. She pulls off his shirt and nestles his head in her cleavage to kiss between her breasts as he peels off the offending pantyhose that separates her smooth legs from his exposed abdomen. They find themselves on the tiled wall, her back arched, hair held up over head while his lips trail little kisses on her décolleté. She’s beginning to moan, emotions that well in the pit of her belly and escape as little bursts of sound. Her fingers dig into his upper back as his tongue encircles her nipple. He ministers to her, and she sings her approval, wetting the front of his pants with her moistness. Her body is practically shivering, he’s compelled to head south.

The elastic free briefs slide off her hips and his tongue trails the inside of her thighs. She urges him, with harried words that come out as grunts and moans. He savours her raspberry swirl, slathering it with his tongue, applying gentle suction, lapping her up. She trembles under him, incoherent, her intellectual thoughts corralled by more primal urges. Her hips rises up to meet him as he slips a finger in and massages her walls. His stubbled chin tickles the smooth exterior of her sacred mound and his fingers travel in and out of her. She bucks to meet each wave and her hands are squeezed into fists at her sides, a pointless attempt at control. The pressure begins to build behind her ears, and her carefully crafted façade of calmness crumbles in the face of such enveloping euphoria. She quickens her ascent to the peak with her fingers, pushing his face away and arriving all on her own with a splintered howl every banshee would covet.

She lies glowing with satiation in a pool of her hastily discarded clothes. She reaches for him but he is gone. She smiles, a new quest. Before the month ends, she’ll find him and make his body sing…

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2 thoughts on “Locus

  1. How is there only one comment on this??
    This is so perfectly paced, so vividly described..it’s delicious. Now if only one night stands actually went so well..*chuckle* You’re a gifted writer.

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