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Le Petit Mort

“I want to put my mouth on you.”

Odd, how they’d known each other for, what seemed, mere minutes. We’re virtually strangers. No, we’re not. No, they weren’t.

The conversation of the eyes had drowned out voices. Small talk. Insinuation. The eyes spoke of a chemical reaction. Need. Newness. But the lips pursed to words. “I want to taste you,” she sighed. Hours were not theirs to waste.

Both hearts tightened and expanded as she lightly touched his swollen groin. “Please,” she whispered, carefully tugging the zipper.

He watched, slightly nervous. A vein beneath the right eye twitched, the eye brightened, following the slow motion of her hand. “Are you wearing them?” I like white stockings. He had thrown the comment into conversation casually, early on.

She crossed her legs, sitting against him lazily, shoulder under his arm. “Yes. I would do anything to please you.” Time was of importance.

Where he looked was beyond her now. Within the turmoil of her passion she forgot what she wore, except that it added to his fantasy, and this, her newest intimacy, rehearsed inside the imagination, was now existent. Smokey sensuality, she had thought, and now that her mouth was filled with him, her senses declared that her imagination was, although vivid, not nearly as pleasant as the realness of it all.

And when he broke inside her mouth he clutched the laced edge of the stocking. Deep melancholy took his breath, twisting it into verbalized ecstasy. Or pain. Or both.

Intense sadness gripped him; le petit mort; extreme desire impassioned her; she swallowed. His tears were wistful; hers were of intolerable yearning.

“Will you want to see me again? Will you want more?”


Ah, if white was so pure in simplicity, then what of the black?

1 comment:

Lisabet Sarai said...

Whew, Ellen! This is intense and beautiful...