Supernatural Ch. 01byTonyDowse©
Another week-end alone - the fifth since she had split from Michael. Week-days were bad enough, getting through the day-time was made easier by her work, the evenings were really difficult. The empty flat, memories all around her, memories of him, memories of them, together. But at least there were things to be done, work brought home to finish and the regular chores of life used to fill the remaining hours before bed.
Bed. Once a playground, now an isolation cell.
But the week-ends were worse, far, far worse. Each one stretching ahead in an unending misery of loneliness.
After the first two or three she had sat down and given herself a good talking to, not for the first time but with more determination. It was over, life goes on, get a hold of yourself, get out, do things, meet people. All sound and sensible advice - but so hard to actually follow. Go where? Do what? Meet who? So she had made a list, scouring the papers for ideas and places - surprising herself at the number of activities there actually were available. Apart from the well-publicised concerts, museums and art galleries, there were literally dozens of smaller events going on at any one time. Odd sounding clubs, special interest group meetings, good works needing help - where to begin?
But later, scanning the list she had made, she felt gloom descending again. A number of things sounded vaguely interesting and, with somebody to go with, curiosity alone might have motivated her to go - but not alone.
So here she was, paying the entrance fee for the art gallery, predictable, unimaginative, safe - and as she paid for the guide-book and stood for a minute or two looking around, hearing the noise of whispered conversations, seeing the proprietorial air of the attendants as they went about their unknown tasks, she tried to remember exactly how many years it had been since the last time she had visited it.
As she pressed on with her disinterested tour she saw fewer and fewer people, here and there a student settled in for a day of studying, a few obvious tourists intent on doing one of the items on their itinerary, every now and then an attendant making sure that all was well. But even these vanished as she left behind the more popular exhibits, wandering aimlessly floor by floor, room by room, the guidebook still unopened in her hand.
It took up a poorly lit corner of a musty room apparently set aside for lesser statuary, many of which seemed to be chipped or broken in some way - but in spite of that, something drew her through the maze of them, until she stood in front of this one. A young man, life-size, semi-reclining, supporting his weight on one arm, the other lightly resting across one thigh, his head raised slightly as he looked just above her head and away into the distance.
How well she knew the shape of the lightly muscled chest and shoulders, the angle of the jaw, the curls of hair around his neck and ears. It was Michael!
The long slim legs, one curled beneath the other, just as she remembered so often seeing them on those wet Sunday afternoons they had spent together - spread out across her lounge-room floor, reading, talking, making love.
Finally allowing herself to look down to where his thighs met, she saw that even there the form was the same, the soft, unprotected vulnerability of him, and the sight triggered heart-stopping memories, memories of the power and life that she could rouse in it, sometimes with the lightest of touches, sometimes with just a look.
She found that without realising it she had placed one hand on the thigh closest to her, it lay resting lightly on the hardness of it, her finger-tips slightly curled over the ridge of muscle and, to her surprise she discovered that the marble felt warm, not cold as she might have expected. As her fingers slowly, hesitantly moved, following the ridge-line, she looked up into his face - almost expecting to see again the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that her touch would have produced - and, unbelievably, there it was!
Surely his face had been set in a distant, unsmiling look - but now, as her hand slowly caressed the long line of his thigh there was undoubtedly the hint of that so familiar reaction. She closed her eyes, shutting out everything except the images the feel of him created in her mind - and, impossibly, she found that she could now feel the softness of his skin, even the individual hairs beneath her finger-tips. Hardly daring to breathe, she let her hand drift slowly, imperceptibly higher, not allowing herself to even think about what she expected to feel.
The almost sharp curve of his hip bone, the softer fullness of the flesh above that would in turn lead up to ribs, chest and shoulders - but her fingers slipped sideways, feeling the firm tightness of his stomach, thrilling as she always did to the feel of those bands of muscle, before splaying her fingers out and down.
The almost oppressive silence was broken by her own sharply indrawn gasp of surprise as they encountered and then slipped between the first of his thickly crinkling, pubic hairs and it was only with enormous difficulty that she resisted confirming what she was feeling by actually looking down at him. Instead she stilled the movement of her hand long enough for her pounding heart and her whirling confusion of thoughts to slow a little.
In her mind's eye she watched as his manhood slowly responded to her - lengthening, rolling across the curving flesh, then slowly lifting from where it had lain against his inner thigh as life and power returned to it - and, as she remembered the image of his response, feeling her own body in turn reacting to the exciting sight of his.
But even as she held herself breathlessly in check, she felt the unmistakable tightening of the muscles beneath her hand and sensed the slight shift of his legs that from time to time would indicate that rather than him now starting to caress her, he wanted her to continue, this time for her to unselfishly give him pleasure.
Then, almost of their own accord her fingers began to move again, slowly edging lower, parting the thick bush of hair until they felt it and, nudging it, confirmed the impossible by feeling the base of the still hardening shaft that her body knew and loved so much. Her fingers curled around it, feeling its heat and, with almost feathery lightness, began to glide up the length of the hard, vein-ridged column. When finally they brushed over the rim of the polished head she was certain she heard him give a sigh of surrender and felt his body move, giving her freer access to him by leaning back a little.
She knew exactly what he wanted and how he liked her to do it - could tell from each intake of breath and muscle twitch when to change the rhythm of her strokes and just what would next please him the most. She didn't need to open her eyes to know the deepening colour of the increasingly glossy head or the look of helpless pleasure that was on his face. Didn't need to hear him gasp intermittently as she used her understanding of his body's needs to take him steadily closer to his climax.
Knowing all that so well she could, while her hand continued to take him towards his ultimate release, in her mind now re-live their happiness together, as though re-playing film of her own moments of most intense joy. The times she had felt her love spontaneously welling up at the sight of him or even at just the sound of his voice. The shared times that had become so special just because it had been the two of them together. The sometimes uncontrollable need she had felt for him to simply hold her close to himself. The indescribable, physical joys he had always been able to arouse in her.
Even as she recalled their love-making her hand felt the suddenly increased power in the hardness of him and sensed the tighter flexing of the rest of his body. She let go of her own memories and concentrated her still closed eyes on the sight of him, flickering back and forth between his pleasure contorted face and the rigid, now thrusting shaft.
Then his deep cry of release echoed around her as he finally came, one pumping hand forcing powerful jets from him, the other catching as much of the creamy stickiness as she could. And as she continued to drain his body she felt her own responding even more strongly to both the thrill of the actual feel of him, and of being able to please him so much.
When finally she felt him relax she released her hold and stood quite still, hearing her own panting breath gradually quieten and feeling the racing of her heart slowing to a more normal pace.
Suddenly she heard a cough behind her and, spinning round, opening her eyes, saw an attendant in the doorway.
'Are you all right miss?'
'Yyyes - thank you.' she heard herself manage to say. Her mind, desperately searching for words, added. 'I was lost in thought I'm afraid. The statue here, it's quite - er, quite lovely.'
'I'm afraid it's only a copy miss - that's why it's up here with the rejects. But yes, I suppose it isn't a bad one. Anyway, if you're sure you're O.K.'
'Yes, I'm sure, thank you.' she said and was relieved to see him walk away, leaving her alone again.
She turned back slowly, hardly daring to look. There it was - but now looking as she had first seen it, just a statue - in fact, as she looked more closely it was difficult to see why she had thought it reminded her of Michael. What was it the attendant had said? 'A copy. Amongst the rejects.' Maybe that was in some strange way appropriate.
But, as she finally turned away from it and began to head for the door she became aware of a sensation of tightness on her hand and, looking down at it, saw the light reflecting off the rapidly drying splodge of wetness.