The Best Erotic Stories.

by Quintet

She hovers in the room as I sit at my desk, writing. Her words and perfume and laughter waft on the air, surrounding me, drawing me on. In my mind I see her still, sitting on the edge of the table, assessing me with soft eyes. I feel the burn of her fingertips across my neck, trailing a white heat down my spine that takes away the ache of long hours.

She is gone now, though not forever. The prospect of a reunion almost makes distance unbearable. If it were written that we would never be together, if there were a complete and irrevocable break, then perhaps the sharp pain below the surface of my self would ease, would turn to a dull discomfort, and eventually fade. But there is no break; there is not even a slight tear in the fabric of our connection. And so the pain is harsh, irregular, erratic in magnitude and measure. The slightest sensation can be its trigger-an image, a scent, a touch, real or imagined. Even my most buoyant of moods is subject to the quick stab of memory, like a slap across the face.

Nights and mornings-the worst times for distant lovers. I lie in bed in the evening, unable to sleep. The evening drifts into the early hours of morning, which bear witness to my fits and starts. These are the times for melancholy, when the expense of a day's energy has worn me down, and left me only able to reflect, and lapse into nostalgia.

When sunlight wakes me some hours later, I stretch out, still half-expecting to feel her sleeping form next to mine. Instead, I am greeted with a cold, empty bed. Refreshed as I am, it is in the mornings that my thoughts become colored with lust. I cast my mind back to a thousand different occasions, each a celebration in its own right. Mornings were always a favorite, though there is not an hour in the day when we have not felt that most revered of pleasures. I let myself drift back to times when she and I were together, and I recall the feel of her naked form above me, arching her back and then leaning in to brush her lips against mine.

I would run my hands down her body, from the curve of her breasts slowly down to her hips, marveling at the taut muscle and soft flesh that her yielding body presented. Gently I would sit up, kneeling, pulling her to me, delighting in the sensuous pleasures afforded me by the caress of her skin on mine, by the cascade of her fine hair across my face and neck, by the touch of her supple breasts against my lips. While clutching her to me, I would listen to her heartbeat, and softly rock back and forth in time to the rhythm. She would clasp her hands behind my neck, and I would grasp her hips, shifting her weight backwards. I would slide my hands under her buttocks, and allow her to put her full weight on them as she spread her legs slightly.

In this position, upright, in delicate and exquisite balance, I would enter her. She would immediately move her body forward, and I would recline slightly, so that she was resting upon me. I would move my hands from her buttocks, and use them to brace myself as she slowly moved back and forth, driving our passion towards its zenith. In this position, I could feel heat emanating from her body, engulfing me as her sex engulfed mine. The warmth flowed from our point of union, and spread outward through my body, working its way through my limbs and torso, until I felt that I had somehow melted into her, and burned as an ember in the same fire.

Here our breathing was becoming ragged, our motions more urgent. On the most divine of these occasions, we would each reach our climax at the same instant. She would unclasp her hands and place them behind her for support, and then extend her legs so that she was outstretched; all done gently, and with my careful compliance, so as not to break our connection. I now could be slightly more emphatic with my thrusts, further excited by the glory of her body, naked and supine. Each of us was granted the gift of seeing the other's eyes, if only for a moment-but that moment alone was enough to signal the approaching culmination of our interlude. Quickly, I grasp her hands, as she lifts upwards, and I rock back on my heels. Locked in this position, in a life-giving circle, we both spend our passion.

The intensity of the orgasm, even in distant memory, is enough to shock me back to the present. My momentary rapture fades to aggravation as my current woes flood my mind; this, quickly enough, turns to sadness. But it is a sadness laced with comfort-for, despite my melancholy, despite my distress, I know that it will only be a matter of time until we two are together again. For lovers such as us, distance and time will only serve to strengthen our bond.


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