The Guest Bed

I find nothing ahead of me exciting. The day is dreary, gray, and far too warm to look that way. A storm is coming in: I can see the kohl-black clouds sprawled out across the sky, looming heavily over the fields as I bring the laundry off the line. I wonder if there will be a tornado, if maybe I'll have to go down-cellar.

Down-cellar.

A glimmer of hope fills me at the thought. I consider the possibility of a storm and convince myself that the odds are good, that maybe I should just go ahead anyway. It's wishful thinking but I don't care.

In the coolness of the cellar, lingering under the aroma of Tide and mothballs is the scent of lust. Over beside the noisy washing machine, underneath the squeaking kitchen floorboard is the faded plaid sofa bed where you're resigned to sleep each night. I can see your pillow, still holding the shape of your head even though you've been gone for hours now. A single strand of light-brown hair rests on it. I pluck it up and hold it to my lips, wishing it was still attached to you, willing this kiss to somehow make contact with you.

My eyes roam downwards, along the patchwork quilt. I envy its handmade softness which was only hours ago resting against your skin. I know there was nothing between you and it. I've been downstairs to check up on you, and I know you sleep bare.

Since I cannot have you now, I must satisfy myself with touching what you have touched. I rest myself against the arm of the couch, hurriedly kicking off my Keds. My jeans have to come off now, and my pink cotton panties quickly follow them. I whip off the navy blue polo I'm wearing and practically rip my bra off. I need to be naked, to have this quilt against my skin like you did last night.

I toss a leg over the arm of the couch and gather up the blanket. I'm sure I look a sight: blonde hair tousled from removing my shirt, straddling a couch with a rumpled blanket pressed to my breasts. I don't care. All I want is your hands on me. This blanket is the closest I will get, so I close my eyes and grip it tightly, drawing it across my nipples. I know it tickled yours the same way. Did it raise them up as bright and pink as mine right now? Did each little movement of fabric send a rush downwards?

That thought reminds me that part of this blanket has touched you down there. Did it get caught between your legs as you slept? Has one corner of this quilt rubbed against your clit? Did you touch yourself? Did you dampen it with your sweetness? I must find out!

In an awkward turning move, my hands raise every last inch of fabric to my nose. I think I've found a spot that smells somewhat musky. It drives me mad and my lips want to taste it, wants to pretend it's your gorgeous pussy instead of some cotton and batting. My fingers hold it tight as my tongue slowly traces around that sweet square, a blue square. I resolve that the color blue will always turn me on.

I draw it further into my mouth, sucking on it. I wish this could be flesh, a little nub I can suck on and lick until your thighs clamp around my ears and you tremble, begging me to stop. I take the other end of the quilt and rub it against myself, my hips beginning to rock along the armrest of the sofa. I pretend your face is beneath me, your lips tickling my nethers. This cotton is your tongue, and my hands send it delving into my pussy before bringing it up to my clit, circling it around.

I rest that end of the quilt on the armrest so I can fuck myself with my fingers. I wish they were yours, your middle finger driving into me just so until it finds a swollen spot. Your finger -or is it mine?- presses gently, rubbing back and forth, raising it up even more. I know you're going to share this with me, that you want to drink me in.

I imagine your mouth opened expectantly, and my legs begin to tremble. I feel the urge building in me as my thumb circles my hardened clit and my middle finger milks the sweet spot between my lips. Suddenly I tense, overwhelmed with sensation. In that one second, the taste of you is so full on my tongue. I can feel every thread in the quilt between my thighs. Each detail is so clear and I swear I can see your gaze from below as I release a stream of my honey onto your waiting face. I hear you tasting it, savoring it as my fingers pound furiously, drumming out more and more until I can bear it no longer and I collapse downward, my face buried in your pillow.

After some time, I rise from the couch, alone yet satisfied. I find my jeans and shimmy my way back into them. I ignore the bra in favor for just a shirt, which I pull over my head. I grab the laundry basket, open the washer and pile everything in, ready for the line. I reluctantly begin the climb up the stairs, glancing backwards. I laugh. Your blanket is soaked. I wonder if you'll notice tonight.