Afternoon Delight

You must remember this--
A kiss is just a kiss;
A sigh is just a sigh;
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by...

It's still the same old story:
A quest for love and glory;
A case of do or die
As time goes by...

Woman needs man, and man must have his mate,--
That no one can deny
As time goes by

the projection of abstrusegoose

for girl5's pleasure

A beautiful woman lounges on a faded white leather couch, bathed in sunlight. She wears only a loose-fitting pair of men's boxer shorts, and her nude body is smooth, full, and pale; from her earlobes to the balls of her feet, there is not a sharp crease or line upon her, save for the sensuously bending shadow cast by her soft breasts upon her sternum. Her hair is damp, and her skin is newly washed, utterly smooth. A moist towel is scrunched between her naked back and the leather of the couch. She has dried herself now, and is no longer chilled; the sun bathing her is as warm as the bath was. She is quite at peace, and though remaining conscious, allows her bodily awareness to diffuse into the early Saturday afternoon.

Her lover hovers over her, lean and muscular and with bony hands and feet, almost material except in his extremities. His lips are curled upward in tenderness and his almond-shaped eyes are dancing with a smile. He descends slowly, locked arms planted on either side of her reclining form, bent knees somehow resting easily, without balance, on the edge of the sofa. He surveys her down his long nose. He leans closer, till a few hairs of her head seem to brush his face. She can feel warmth coursing through her; but his radiance and that of the sunlight are one. He whispers, "Hello, darling"--and then his lips touch hers. Without returning to her body, she is electrified; it is as if warm honey suddenly pours from his lips over her body--down her chest, down her throat, simultaneously welling up from inside her core, at the base of her torso, below her navel. All she can see is his eyes. Her back arches a little forward, trembling ever so slightly. She cannot move, but is vibrating--her whole body is vibrating with his warm unspoken chord, transparent and golden like the middle string of ancient cherry-wood violin.

A smooth assured touch, like solid water, grazes along her inner thigh. She gasps, drawing a shuddering breath--yet it is gone. His eyes twinkle and his eyebrows arch. "Do you like the way my hands feel, dear?" he whispers, and suddenly she is encased in him; his arms pass through the couch to encircle her flesh; the whole length of his body is fused with hers along a boundary of liquid fire, touching her in more places than it is physically possible for two bodies to meet, touching her inside--

His entire body is inside hers, and he rocks slowly up and down, the molten sea of him washing gently though her like water through a bottle. His tongue traces up and down along her neck, as the firmer mounds of his chest guide her soft globes up and down, as his hardness courses though her innermost places like molten diamond. She is completely and utterly full, overfull, complete, overflowing, rigid and soft, straight and curved, two beings crammed into one. Her pleasure has no beginning and no end, for it is a river. She is a river too, and although she hardly notices it the towel beneath her is not getting any drier, and neither is the leather under that.

Time passes, and the light changes. And with the change in light her lover begins to coalesce, begins to become more definitely present at different places inside her. She can distinctly feel his lips working the inside of her armpit, sliding down the side of her torso...

There begins to grow a mighty rhythm, in and out, at her groin. A massive nexus of energy and weight and form slides across her inner lips, into her, and out, over and over and over. The strokes lengthen and lengthen; until each time it starts at her toes and slides as if on train tracks along the arches of her feet, all the way up the insides of her legs, gaining strength as it does, finally entering her like the clap of an ocean wave, crashing, filling her stomach.

Then his lips are on her nipples, and they are suckled and twisted and nipped. They sing. Her whole breasts are engulfed and kneaded by a strong jaw, utterly freed of their own weight. With each thrust her back arches more, her nipples protrude out further into the great warm spicy sea of kisses, her pelvis shakes as it receives its massive load. This is better than when he was totally inside her, than when he *was* her; each entry and exit is exquisite; she exists only relative to his otherness, only to feel him come and go from her. There is a peak coming--a singularity; a point beyond which they both know there is no return possible. It is coming--it is here. She takes him in one last time and he does not leave--he explodes, inside her, carrying away her consciousness, with his own, like dying sparks into the setting sun.