Recline, please


She kicks off her shoes and settles back. Her left hand’s fingers interlace with the right and together, both rest upon wrists,  upon hipbones draped in the grey cotton wool of her dress.

He places his hand over hers and his ear to her cheek,  finds the curve of her breast and the underlying beat sounding out rich and deep in her chest.

He lets a deep sigh escape his lips before he can make the effort to hold it back.

It hangs over them for the fraction of time it takes her to uncross and recross her ankles.

He looks down over the outline of her thighs, sees the bony bend of her knees, the straight of her shins, the flesh of her muscled calves.  He has viewed her crimson toe polish from similar vantage points… sometimes while her feet are resting on the wall of the tub, sometimes as they grip the sheets of the bed while he feeds her his manhood while standing behind her beautiful head-  her mouth open to take him, no concern over how she appears from above.

In automatic and care-taking fashion, she gathers in a sigh and without a thought she unlocks the casual hand stance she has taken and reaches up to smooth the hair off his forehead,  runs her fingers through his hair, traces her finger down the bridge of his nose and lets her palm massage the hollow of his check before allowing the slide down over his jaw, then over his chin.

He looks up at her and shifts position so he is looking into her eyes. With elbows on each side of her body he lifts his weight from her form, uses his hands to frame her face, and cradles her head.  Lifting her lips to his and breathing into his nostrils her exhaled breath,  he gives it right back to her, somehow transformed into the fragrant depths of a summer-morning’s kiss.


He tasted like the dew of morning, his lips wet with a sweetness reminiscent of fresh clover and coffee.


#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

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