Dark except for the smallest sliver of light coming from the open door to the bathroom. Sharing a room in a suites hotel with a family member. Across the country from home. From her.
A door separating me from my traveling companion. I am on the sleep sofa, lumpy, uneven, too thin to support any weight.
Dark. The bathroom light is left on so that she can see her way in the dark, if she opens the door during the night. The bathroom is on my side of the divide. On my side of the door.
Dark. Time is uncertain to me. The alarm clock is on her side, in the bedroom. On my side, nothing but the dark. An arm's length away is a cellphone, and if I reach for it, I can see the time.
But in the dark, time is uncertain to me.
Even my body does not help me. Three hours ahead. Three hours behind. I am not sure what my body is saying to me. In the dark.
I lie on my back. Looking upwards in the dark. There is nothing to see.
Only my imagination. I close my eyes and it is just as dark as with my eyes open.
A door separating me from my traveling companion. It may as well be a continent. She will not venture through that door for hours.
Dark. And alone. Alone with my thoughts.
A continent away is where you lie. Maybe in your bed too. Maybe in the dark. Maybe alone.
Maybe a door separating you from the sound of someone else breathing. Or maybe just alone.
It may as well be a continent, even when I am not away.
Dark. And alone. Alone with my thoughts.
I reach down beneath the covers and find myself. Soft. I touch my flaccid self and I am cold. And alone. It is warm in the room, but I feel cold. And soft.
I touch myself and try to warm myself. I think in my mind of things I should not think about.
It has been well over a year since I sat beside you in that restaurant for the first time, and yet I can still remember your lovely scent. The mixture of your perfume and of your arousal. I can still bring that up in my memory, as though it were happening now.
I touch myself and think about things I should not think about.
I think about words exchanged. About graphic words. About words without boundaries and without either intent or forethought. Simply words of the moment.
I think about words sent out that are a quick fuck in a hallway, and not the romantic and planned night of two lovers. I think about words that are a hand job in a car-wash , or a blow job in an empty room only feet away from people who would not believe or who would not imagine....
I think about words that are two fingers slipped into a wet pussy in an elevator, but which are not a tuxedo and black dress with a corsage.
I think about words that are a hand resting on an ass, or a quick squeeze of balls while walking into a restaurant, and not words that are an expression of love and commitment.
I touch myself and think about words written solely to arouse and to excite, to get you wet or to make me hard. Words that are a quick shot of cum onto your tits, and a moist finger slipped in my mouth after you slip it into your hot and wet cunt.
I touch myself. It is dark. I am alone.
I think about words. Bitch. Fuck. Cum. Blow job . Words that we don't use in polite speech.
I think about words. Small tits but sensitive nipples. Wet pussy. Hard cock. Pearl necklace. Jacking off. Fingering. Pinching your hard rosebuds atop your tits. Stroking my cock in front of your face. Sticking my tongue between the folds of your wet lips. Clitoral sucking. A finger up your ass.
But not words of love and romance. No flowers. No dinners by candlelight.
I touch myself. It is dark. I am alone.
Now I am hard. I feel the first drops emerging from my tip, and my hand slides both along the smooth skin and with the slick lubricant I am producing.
My hand slides along the smooth skin, but slowly and quietly. I have to be careful. There is a door. But it is only a door. Doors are meant to be opened. They can open at any time.
I touch myself. I think of words that create images.
I think of pure images. Of memories.
Tight black leggings with no underwear. The outlines of lips so clear, so obvious, so visible.
Images that were not sexual at the time. Images that were the subject of playful words. Words that some people took offense at.
I touch myself. The image is different now. The image is of lips that need to be touched. To be sucked. To be licked.
I touch myself. The image is of folds opening, of pink dampness beneath the black outer shell of tight leggings.
The image is of lips parting to reveal pink and wet smoothness. An entry to touch.
The image is of lips that are not being covered for modesty, but which are being revealed to stir the imagination.
Of an ass beneath the black leggings. Of legs meeting at that ass, and meeting in a V-shaped paradise of lips and folds, of liquids and textures, of tastes and of aromas and scents.
Yes, the scent. I have it in my mind still. And now that memory joins with images of another day.
And I touch myself. My fingers tracing patterns, some random and some with express intent to touch myself in specific ways. Around the shaft, the hard shaft emerging from the curls. Of patterns traced along the engorged head, a finger touching a hole and finding more liquid seeping out.
I touch myself and my hand slides effortlessly up and down the length, and pauses to feel the girth and to feel the pulsating rhythm of a heart beating and driving the whole body.
The dark. Images in the dark. Small breasts almost imperceptible at times. Distinct and hard nipples atop those breasts. Images of the healthy and taut and muscular flesh. Of breasts. Of a belly. Of legs. Of an ass. Of shoulders and a neck. Of feet. The flesh of a body, and images of touch and of taste.
The dark. Some enjoy sexual exploration more in the dark, afraid to show their flesh in broad daylight. Afraid of judgment , with ripples, wrinkles, scars, discolorations all visible. Some like the dark and the mystery of blind touch. Of finding and not finding. Hit and miss. Of feeling a hot moist breath of air land suddenly on a hot and wet and waiting pussy, as a head descends between thighs and a mouth engulfs her sex.
Some like the light. The mystery is a mystery within, not a mystery of blindness in the dark. Small firm tits and firm flesh in view, thighs perhaps larger than she would like them to be...also so clear and in view. The multiple folds and nooks and crannies, the crevices of a pussy spread open for inspection. For adoration. For worship, like pilgrims standing before a temple at the end of a voyage across the world. Hot and pink and wet, and skin folding in upon itself and openings to nowhere, and openings to everywhere.
The dark. In the dark I see a pussy spread open so clearly. How vulnerable is woman, that she should be made thus! How vulnerable a construction! An opening to herself. Leading inside to her most inner self. The man, he is outside of himself, standing erect and apart from his body. But the woman, she allows an entry into herself, a violation of her self. In the dark I see spread open an entry into her most private self. A surrender of autonomy, since she has yielded , and her walls have come down. How beautiful has woman been made, that she remains one unto herself and yet surrenders and becomes one with another!
The dark. I touch myself and imagine the free flow of ideas and of feelings, the free flow of touch and the give and take, as her hand surrounds me now, as her hand slides along the length and encircles the girth, as her hand cups the spheres below and feels the source of the inevitable eruption. I touch myself but it is another hand that touches me in the dark. Sliding smoothly along velvet flesh, and gripping firmly as if mimicking the walls of her inner wetness.
She touches herself but it is my hand that feels her inner wetness, and it is my hand that scoops up her liquids and brings them by fingertips to my lips, as I taste her nectar.
As I taste your nectar. And inhale and remember that scent of a long time ago.
It is dark. I am alone. A continent away.
But as I touch myself I am being touched. My hardness grows and my shaft arches, pointing up toward myself, straining towards me, unyielding and unbending, firm and resolute, within my grasp and the velvety smoothness betraying the steel-like hardness. Unbreakable will and determination.
I think of words. They were just words. But they were more than words. The words were a pair of leggings pulled down, and an ass being thrust backward to the man behind it, as she bends over the edge of a table in a boardroom, and as his hardness enters her in a single and swift movement, and as his hands reach forward to encircle her waist and hold her steady as he thrusts in an unrelenting rhythm deep inside of her.
As he fucks her.
In the dark I think of words. Words that mix the gentleness of a caress with the immediacy of a kiss, a head pulled with both hands toward another head, lips pressed tightly against lips, and tongues entering mouths and exploring with urgency.
I touch myself. But it is not the touch of solitude, but the touch of hands thrust between flesh and waistbands, of hands reaching down into briefs or panties and hands grasping at, and finding treasures beneath the covers of clothing. A finger fucking a wet pussy in a dark thirty second walk in an amusement park fun-house . A grabbed erection through tight jeans and a few playful strokes through the fabric, giving a taste of the direct contact of a quick hand job later.
In the dark, I am not a gentleman. I am not even a good friend. I am not a son, or a father, or a spouse, a lover or anything.
In the dark I am simply touch. Touching a need. Touching a desire. Touching something forbidden that may as well be a continent away. Touching a passion. Touching a nerve. Touching simply to touch. Touching to satisfy. To arouse. To ignite and to add fuel. Touching to make it red hot. Touching to get wet. Touching to make it even harder. Touching to bring out the animal.
In the dark, the words I conjure up are not words of anything else besides a hard cock, a wet pussy, yielding lips, grasping and stroking hands, penetrating fingers, a tongue, an ass grasped by reaching hands, smooth skin and hair, sweat and saliva and semen and your fluids all mixed, taste and smell, tightness and tautness, legs spread, and guttural sounds instead of poetry.
Dark. Alone. I touch myself but I stop. I don't allow myself to climax. I stop.
Because it is dark. because I am alone.
Because the words I remember are a continent away.
Because the images I see are a continent away.
Because as I touch myself, as good as it feels and as real as the words and images may be, I am alone. And I touch myself selfishly.
Desire is not something I find when I look inward. Desire is something I find when I look to another.
Pleasure is not something I seek when I am alone. Pleasure is something I seek when I look to pleasure another.
Touch. I close my eyes and I can feel those nipples, firm and resolute pressing into my palms as I reach around and hold those tender and small breasts from behind. As my hardness presses into the yielding flesh of buttocks in front of me. As my breath falls on the back of a neck. As I reach down in front of me and reach down and find the outlines of flesh beneath a black outer shell of stretchy fabric, as it molds to and contours the outlines of the object of my touch.
Touch. In the dark my hands simply find myself, yet they seek another.
They seek touch and pleasure. Not my own pleasure. But to pleasure another. Absolutely. In the dark and in the light. In words and images. Here and a continent away.
But somehow linked to someone else through touch and through words and images that bridge months and years, and which bridge a continent.
And which make the imaginary and unthinkable real and immediate.
Alone. Dark. It is just a furious fuck. An uncontrollable urge to unleash an explosion.
Dark. I wait for the light. When the explosion of energy will be controlled and directed to touch, and when touch will be infused with both that power to be unleashed, and with the tender and gentle silences of a loving caress, when fucking and making love become the same thing, when touch becomes more than just words and images.
When touch becomes poetry.
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