eros, logos: Wake

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Wake

I wake. I don't know the time nor what I was dreaming. I'm not really awake yet, and it seems very natural that my hand should move lower, between my legs. I part my thighs and arch my back a little. My eyes are still shut, and it's so cold out there, I don't want to leave this small part of warmth here under the duvet. I don't want full consciousness yet.

I sigh. My fingers trace my labia, then part them. I slide one finger inside. I'm already a bit wet there, and I trace myself, spreading that slippery wetness. It brings out more, and I feel a single pulse deep inside my cunt, that ache to be filled.
I push my hips up, towards my fingers, but I won't let them descend fully yet on my clit; I want to prolong this, just as you would.

Now up. To my clit, and I gasp a little and bite my lip when I get there. It springs up as it always does, grows plumper, more sensitive, more slippery. One finger, rubbing, dreamy slowness, circles soft, then more firmly, then soft again. . .

I slow down. I don't want to come too soon.

I slide a finger inside myself and clench around it, and then I bring my fingers up to my mouth and taste myself. I don't why but the taste changes, I don't know if it has to do with where I am in my cycle, or with diet, or some other weird alchemy of body and mind. There's always a similar note though, I think there must be for all women, some individual scent and taste that is the base note for all our variations. I don't taste or smell quite like my one girlfriend's cunt did, nor did she smell or taste quite the same all the time. I lick my fingers, and now I open my legs more, as I bring my fingers back.

I could come very quickly, and sometimes I do; those orgasms that are had for the relief of tension, or on the edge of falling asleep. Or I could spend three hours, break out the toys. Not today, neither of these. This is the waking up kind of wanking.

On my clit now, again. Slow circles that bring me suddenly so close, I did not know the edge was right there, and I have to stop, before going on.

I'll bring myself to this edge 3 or 4 times, coming to the cliff and then backing off from the plunge. I don't dread falling, I long for it.

My hips press down now, rocking in their own rhythm. pushing me forward.---and then I come, and shudder helplessly, I shake, and there are no thoughts now, the blackboard of the mind wiped purely clean. My thoughts fly, scatter like sparrows, my mind empties like that abandoned wire against the sky, and ll I am conscious of now is pure sensation, the wetness coating my fingers, the heat of my cunt pulsing around them.

I'm helpless now, opened up in more than the physical sense, and though I have scrupulously not thought of you, not at all, nor of anyone . . . This is when I am suddenly filled with your voice, as I come, although I don't want to be, at all. I'm flooded with the image of you kneeling here, your tongue slipping into me, the rough velvet of your tongue gently and urgently tracing these soft folds, while your fingers open me to you even more. How I'd push upward against your tongue, my hands on your head, my fngers gripping your hair, as I lift my hips to help guide the chalice of myself to your lips. I push these images away from me as quickly as they occur, yet not quickly enough. I can close my mental eye to these images and banish them, but I don't seem able to control what I hear, and it's your voice that stays no matter what; it invades me and undoes me as I come, as I shake. I'm inundated with it, like drowning, like diving.

I can't drive it out. I cry out, in coming, I can't ever help that, and as the memory of your voice saying my name fills my head I think I come harder, because of it.

I lie still in my bed after, heartrate and breathing returning to normal, hand still between my legs. I hold onto myself.

I don't think of you but you're here all the same.
I open my eyes.
Wake.

Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,
so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables.
Carol Ann Duffy , You

posted by O @ 06:32