Past & Present

At the day’s end, I can see her there sometimes, on the sofa and in my mind, nestled under a focus of lighting from one reading lamp close by. An evening alone, one out of a complex pattern of many, ready for recall from that created place I have for her.

In this vision, I see her pick up the old pile of writings which I had given at the time, and slowly move through, reading the parts she wants to read again, as they appear.

Finding what she seeks, I see her settle and begin the long haul of rediscovery in peace. One page over and turned, a finger glides smoothly lower through the column of paragraphs in slow advance. Continuing down ahead of her eyes’ tracking, it ends in her lap, patiently waiting on the next page-turn.

Rhythm and pace established, she settles more comfortably, legs raised up in support under the bonded pages – hand returned light to her lap, and begins flexing idly over the fabric drawn tight, that slight motion anticipating where the story is leading.

Possibly remembering back to when she offered to read it once, and provide me with a critique on what I had attempted, and could not truly know myself – namely how it feels for a woman to touch herself, how the orgasm comes upon her… I remembered her telling me after that first reading, that it had moved her to masturbate too, and I was of course pleased.

Now she is reading it again, more than a year after it had first been given. In my mind, I see her often like this, reviewing the keepsake and reliving the need inspired – maybe remembering too the hardness of me in her mouth’s softness, or the light ticklings of my tongue circling in slow-motion around her desire hardened clitoris. I am sure that there are many more moments she could pull back up from memory to dally with at times like this – but it pleases me to include myself, because it is also my own fantasy-reminiscence from those days. I lie stretched out upon another sofa, naked and erection in hand, slowly moving my hand to the pace of the thoughts.

Whatever the inspiration for her need, I will that she chooses the one with its daring eroticism to set the scene with. Her hand begins massaging three light fingers in a repeat-slide back and forth over her pubic mound.

Taking it away to turn yet another page, it returns to unbutton herself fully, and slide that hand instead under the fabric for more intimate contact – inserting it into her slip, and letting one leg angle away from its duty as support.

My imagination watches as she continue to stroke herself for a while reading still, the motion of that hand leaving nothing to my imagination – flexing itself up and down with hypnotic, regular motion, in a clear circling of focus around that sweet-spot. It is not a prolonged session I want her to have, I realise, but an end to this sudden need – no foreplay or attention to her breasts, just a focusing of fingers directly on the spot, and that in turn gets me so very hot.

Breathing harder now as her attention to the words falters, she lets the book sag away, closing her eyes in concentration on the pictures in her mind – aided by the fingers’ exciting attentions.

Seeing her part those slender legs still further, I lick my lips while she lays herself fully back, working the hand faster now in time to the need. I bring up my own tempo to match – the orgasm comes on her swift and hard, before she can even sound a moan, followed by a light shuddering breath, from body-jerking spasms.

My own is hot and less prosaic, in short, a messy splash.

As I lie there slowly recovering, I contemplate further and see beyond the moment just explored, slotting it further into her life and knowing that despite her powerful orgasm, the light sounds are the only signs to the world outside, of what has happened – I let her wonder as she slows her own strokings, if the neighbours can hear anything, maybe late at night, or see her when they pass, as she occasionally lies naked on the sofa to stroke herself at will on sunny Sunday afternoons.

Replete she picks up the book and reads some more, returning her hand once in every while into her slip, to stroke slowly some more. The continuation has me hard again.

Then ready for bed at last, my imagination follows her in abbreviated glimpses, as she takes her book up to bed – having saved a favourite part for when she is more accessibly naked and warm, sat cross-legged with a hand easily keeping pacing to the flow of the story.

After that, there is always another piece in the writings, that has her stretched out and on-fire, with legs wide and fingers busy as she relives the scene playing itself out on her whole body.

It could be a busy night, and I shudder again, feeling hot seed splatter up onto my skin.