One Rainy Afternoon

If you're looking for great plotlines, I'm not your lady - more erotica than lit, this is purely a fantasy fragment meant as inspiration:)

So the rain is locked outside, where it should always have been, and the storm, such as it is, lashes its subdued British fury about us, so that we stumble into the foyer, damp, wet to the core, but alive and somewhat invigorated by the freshness of the torrent we've left behind.

You, you put the bags down by the counter, having insisted on carrying mine, and me not exhibiting more than a feeble protest. You shake your head like a soaked puppy, not so oblivious as to affect those around you, heavens, no, not rude. But a genuine gesture for sure and one that makes me smile, more in than out, as I turn to the receptionist and explain that we have a booking. You, looking around, soaking it in, the original art deco fixtures, features, quite stunning, and I'm glad of my choice.

But I just want to be warm and dry, and I'm so in need of a bit of cosy, wrapped-up-ness, in a blanket, I think... in you, maybe...

And it seems natural, despite my check-in, for you to pick up the plastic card that serves as a key and lead the way to room 225. Second floor and you head for the lift. I take a gamble that it won't be too small, built with the building, and it pays off. Large mirror greets us as we walk in, wet, us, and we look it... hell, certainly no obvious pairing... but comfortable...and we stand, alone in the lift, back to the mirror, as the lift plods upwards, not talking. You gesture for me to step out first and then we follow the signs to the room.

Inside, I look around, fairly standard but nice, and too in need of warmth, dryness, even to check out the bathroom, I crawl, fully dressed, leopard-coat and all, under the blankets and into bed. I kick my shoes out the bottom, lie on my side, and simply enjoy. I am just starting to drift off, when I feel you crawl in behind me.

An itch... no, no itch this, just a gentle warmth, and a feeling of relaxed inevitability that takes away anything resembling pressure, nervousness.

And a desire now, like the moment before unwrapping a pile of birthday, Christmas gifts, when you want to start peeling, ripping, away at the layers, but in the knowledge that the beginning will lead to the end, and a hope that postponement will keep that feeling alive. A slow, no rush situation.

I think back to that first night, with your wife asleep upstairs, late, dark, hushed, and not. How drunk - not an unfamiliar situation for either of us - and talking and talking, quiet-quiet, we went quieter still, where you reached over on that couch and kissed me, leaning me back, head up on the armrest, your hand softly across my mouth, while the other raised a finger to your own lips. Shhhh. Lights out.

Now there, there, babe, was an itch. And if anyone can scratch an itch, that anyone would be you.

And how that first time, with a closed door and a silent house, and, frankly, no preamble at all, because, what, truly, was needed. You kissed me, me all shhh and used to saying your name in the dark, so quiet, less than a whisper. I fucking did, I wanted you so fucking badly, you, that those jeans of mine were gone already (I know, because I pulled them off).

I think of your one hand and how it conducted a pretty thorough reconnaissance mission, while your other hand unbuttoned, unzipped, un-fucking-tethered, and on top of, you slipped inside me, filling me up, me all gaspy, all lip-bitey and don't give a shit, but I had to. Your hand was back over my mouth, and you kind of looked at me, but neither of us really looking or seeing.

But all I could feel was you, and those hard, deliberate strokes, that made my head bang slightly against the arm, and I just willed you to come (yes, with an o and an e), more than anything, that, babe, was what I wanted.

I wanted that for you, so I could know that fucking smile in the dark, and I wanted that for me, so I could feel those last few thrusts and push right on up to meet you, and know how that felt. So you did, and oh-but it was all hmmm-ing smiles but not a time for postcoital bliss, and you pulled out of me, me with a little protest moan that I didn't really mean, because in essence that was all that itch needed and the rest is just icing on the top.

We straightened out and sit up and lights on. Aware, again, of the family sleeping upstairs.

And now, here, back in the hotel, you crawl in behind me, all wrapping-up and holding, just still and still and still, you and me. Waiting waiting, because this is no itch, my friend.

Not quick, not frantic, not nothing; by this point, unlike so far, it's not an itch that needs scratching, you, but a long and slow and loving afternoon, where we can pull out those tongues of ours and just ex-pul-ore.