Need
by Jesca
Shift.
What the hell do they stuff these things with? No matter how many
times I punch down the mattress and the pillows, they never conform.
Ever.
It isn't hard to decide whether to keep my eyes open or to close
them. When they are open I see the reality of what is. This cell,
my jailors, my tormenters, my allies. My life is about making it
through the day to lay on this fucked up mattress where God knows who
else has marked it before me, and dream. I live for the dreams.
There is only one thing better. Visits. It doesn't happen often,
and I don't blame him. Would I visit? Probably not the old me. The
before me. But now? Will I ever get a chance to prove it? Would I
want a chance?
When I close my eyes, though, it's all him. I can feel my lips curl
into a smile as the colors shift from the dark dismal blue of the
cell to the creamy walls reflecting the firelight that plays across
his chocolate skin. My ears calm when the sounds of screaming and
banging, crying and cursing is erased and a soft sound of his breath
enters my ear. His whispers. No, it isn't hard to decide to close
my eyes. What is hard is the time I am forced to open my eyes and
fight and defend and struggle to survive to get to this. This
moment, where I can occupy myself with him. Only him.
Orange and cream, dark, rich colors and all their hues splash over us
from the fire we sit in front of. I could imagine the tightly drawn
shirt over his muscles, and describe the tingle of my fingertips as I
touch it. The tightness of his pants, and how it tightens with my
touch. But my time is limited, and the mystery is removed because I
imagine him unencumbered and in all his glory, lying on his side,
watching me watching him. Watching me memorize his every feature.
He is patient. He waits. His intense eyes inspect the pleasure my
face reflects at the sight of him. I play a game. I try to find a
flaw. I lose every time. I don't mind.
His skin, rippling, hardened muscles under, but so smooth to the
touch. I could let my mind play over the intricacies and dichotomies
of his skin alone, but I move on out of desperation and anticipation,
unable to draw my eyes away until I've seen it all. His dark eyes.
I could swim in them, but something tells me I'd forget how. I'd
rather drown anyway. I'd rather be immersed. His soft lips. They
ache for the kissing, but the kissing will come. My own lips tingle
at the thought of connecting. Wide shoulders with small hills and
gullies, outlines of his strength. His hands. I almost give up. I
almost cave in at his hands. I want to feel them caress me. I want
to feel the hardness of life that has imprinted itself onto his hands
brush over my skin, making me shiver and tingle with delight. His
chest. What I wouldn't give to be able to run my tongue down his
chest, explore a different way. Feel my taste buds experience every
flavor that is him. His stomach. More muscles, more gullies to
trace with my tongue. I wonder if I could make him squirm? To feel
him squirming under me would undoubtedly be the undoing of me. Not
that I don't like to be unwrapped many times. My eyes caress where
his wiry curls bring them, hard now and hardening more as I feel his
eyes watching me, watching my tongue as it licks my lips at the sight
and the thoughts invoked. His legs. So strong, so muscled. Hard
under the touch, but I don't touch, yet. I love the way his legs
taper, slim, and then open to his feet. Even his toes, perfect.
They crook where they are supposed to; they are straight where
necessary. Not many people know how sensitive to the touch they
are. How he jumps when I run my tongue across the bottom of them.
He knows me too well by now. Night after night has taught him when I
finish looking at him and he moves onto his back. Now my skin
tingles all over because I know its time. Touch. I love to rub my
body over his. Teasing with my tongue as I trace the places my eyes
were only allowed moments ago, I do indeed feel him writhing under
me, and I feel wetness and heat between my own legs, but I try to
wait. His hips jut up as my tongue traces his hardness and I feel
his hands, those wonderfully large hands pull me slowly up his body.
What a torture that is. To feel the length of my body rub the length
of his in one feel swooping where I am at last in position. But I
don't mind this position. A knee on each side of his head, my own
head bent down to stare into those pools of intensity as his tongue
shows me how much he misses me. His large hands keeping my hips in
place, so that even my gentle rocking with him is stifled, but again,
my lover knows me well, because he knows I don't mind. In fact soon
after sound is reverberating off of the walls as hot and as blazing
as any of the colors thrown off by the fire. Long after I can't
watch him anymore, he continues, satisfying one need but creating
another until I feel like I will never have satisfaction and for once
I am not sure if I wouldn't rather the need.
I don't get a choice because now its all him. It's all about the
feeling of abandonment when he finally lifts me and all about the
moment just before when I know I'm about to experience him. I'm
about to feel more and stronger and a moment of fear flashes into my
mind because I just hope the anticipation is overshadowed by the
feeling of him and what was I thinking? Of course it would be. I
feel every ridge and ripple as his fills me fuller than I have ever
hoped and always wanted. I hear the soft notes of his silky moan as
I envelope him. His hands tighten around my waist because now isn't
a time for moving. Now is a time for relishing. And we do. We
revel in the feel of each other. But reveling turns to revealing as
our passions peek out again, forcing his hands to move me over him.
Causing each ridge to rub the walls of my insides. My back
straightens and then curves inward because I can't help but throw my
head back and let voice be heard. I want him to know all the
pleasures I feel and I vocalize them as best as I can in my lover
language of moans and groans, the occasional whimper and a squeak,
maybe two.
Obviously he understands because his hands move my hips at a speed I
crave and an intensity I live for. My eyes lock with his because I
would be cheating myself out of the flip side of all the pleasures he
provides if I can't see his eyes as he pours into me. I want to see
the trickle of sweat run down his cheek and see the glistening of his
chest. I promise my tongue another taste before this ends, but my
eyes are riveted to him as I feel fluid leave me; enter me. My
senses are alive as I hear every crackle of the fire, and feel it's
every heat wave flash over me in quick licks. My skin feels every
crevice of his as we merge for that moment in mind and body and then
I hear the palpable silence that is left while our screams are
ringing in my ear.
And it figures that with so much pleasure the cruelty of life would
kick into overdrive as I just know that those screams came from
outside. The cool air tickles my slick skin and my eyes
inadvertently open to the cold blueness of my cell. I slip my
fingers out of the wetness that is me and smile into the darkness. I
smile. I don't cry. I don't curse. I smile. Because it isn't
morning and I get to close my eyes again and that is worth smiling
about.
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