Lover Come Home Ch. 04byRoseMontana©
Sunday, not a day of rest
I've never actually called you darling, probably couldn't without bursting into giggles. Too theatrical, though today it suits my mood. Have been dealing with spoiled brat reporters all day. Their laptops should be removed from their laps and banged over their heads. Then they should be given quill pens, and told to go write very slowly on paper they made themselves. Respect for effort. They have minds like mayflies, write with clubs, and think I should respect that. I do my "Lady Jane knows everything" routine, which always works with the poor insecures. I become impossibly arch and mention something devastating like,
"You made three comma splices in the first paragraph" in a faint, very faint English accent.
They return to their desks like chastened children. Lady Jane is a hoot, I love being her when necessity calls her up from inside me. But she does dredge up my flair for the dramatic, so you are darling tonight, dear V.
I go to court tomorrow for jury duty. Hope I get chosen for a trial. In college I made money by being a jury member for mock trials at the Law School. Easy cash and it convinced me not to go to law school. Too much minute detail not enough grand thoughts about Justice.
To be a good juror prospect I am choosing my wardrobe carefully. I am aiming for sensible, slightly mouse-like, not hopelessly dowdy, with a small touch of feminine wile. I want to seem like a sane good bet and at same time charm the lawyers into wanting me around.
End of news, now to the good stuff. Our stuff. I am going to continue last night's theme, The Homecoming. Thinking about how we shall go about rediscovering one another makes your return seem closer.
On the third day, or night if you insist on waiting, we shall have to undertake a general inspection. You have been gone for more than a week. Even in that brief time, our bodies change. We will want to see and understand what has happened. I know you agree.
Obvious are the lengths of our hair and nails. Will you have had a haircut by some artistic Italian barber, or must I see to your fine straight locks? I remember you with long hippie hair, a pony tail even, years ago. Now you are tidier as befits your age and position.
I might suggest a tonsure. Bald men are sexy. Something about that shiny flesh makes them look extra vulnerable which is always enticing. But you are already totally vulnerable to me and are hardly a monk. No tonsure.
My hair grows like a weed, especially in this hot weather, but it never gets cut. It just grows and dies, like us all. How gloomy my thinking gets when you are gone.
Our nails are different too. Your hands are rather small for someone your size. The nails are square-shaped and flat. You see to them yourself, when I am not looking. They always seem to be the same. My nails are long and slightly pointed, the better to hold you with my dear. You are the sculptor in this household, so you are responsible for their shape. You take so long doing them, I sometimes get impatient. The wolf wants to eat Little Red Riding Hood.
Most peoples toes are ridiculous. They are either hunched over, like old men, or straight and tall, pretending to be fingers. I never felt I knew you until I had examined each of your toes. Odd where intimacy can lie, waiting to be discovered. You were shaking slightly, I couldn't tell with laughter or embarrassment.
My toenails seem to grow much slower than my finger nails, why is that? I still assume you know the reason for everything in the real world. Perhaps because you were a science student when we first met and I was consumed by Art and illusion.
We attend to each others toes when we take one of our joint baths. Clean, file, and cuddle. Maybe even suck. Our toes are prehensile too. So useful. Let your imagination wander around on this topic for awhile.
During your inspection I will play detective and try to determine where you have been by looking for clues on your body. Tan lines can tell alot. If only one arm is tan, you've been driving. Are your legs darker? You've been in shorts and hence in a less formal arena. If the lines around your eyes are lighter, you've been outdoors alot, squinting in the sun, searching for some clues of your own.
Scars, bites, scratches, may mean something. I catalogue them carefully. You look me over carefully for bruises. My skin bruises easily. Have I fallen off a horse, or bumped into the corner of my desk again? Each must be kissed to make it well by my dear male mother.
Now we move on to more intimate places. I search all of the hair on your body. You endure this like a small boy. Perhaps I will find ticks, like on my old dog. What I do find are new places to kiss. You have a small bump at the top of your skull. And some tiny hairs at your navel. The hair around your rectum is surprisingly soft. Mine is hard.
I know because I can feel your hand stroking it. That feels so good it is almost unholy. Did God mean us to experience this kind of pleasure? Did evolution lead us these intense feelings? Why?
Your hand is still stroking, but one finger is seeking. It is not hard to find what it wants. Inside me. The sweetest invasion.
Inspection completed. We are both found wanting.