TRANSITION

By G. Gregory

Copyright 2000 – MyErotica

She finally gave up. Sleep was not to be her companion despite the glowing
red numbers on the digital alarm clock reminding her that she was closer to
a new day than the old one she had abandoned hours earlier. It was hot as
hell and the sorry excuse of an air conditioner ground away with a
relentless metallic growling noise. The weak breeze that seeped from the
slots on top of the droning beast was not any cooler than the air hanging
motionless in the room. One small consolation crossed her mind – at least
the beast was rendering air that moved.

The latch on the window refused to yield to her efforts to unfasten it.
Prisoner. She was a prisoner in a hotel room nine floors off the ground and
sentenced to die a slow death by melting. The exertion of yanking at the
stubborn window unleashed a lone bead of sweat from the rear of her jaw that
trickled down her neck, collecting with several more forming in the hollow
along her collarbone. Once more she gave up.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, resting her forehead on the window.
The glass was cool by comparison prompting her to roll her head slowly from
side to side. In a few short seconds even the smooth cool surface succumbed
to the damp body heat radiating from her nakedness. Casting a sideways
glance toward the clock, she watched absently as minutes slipped away. The
growing pool of moisture along her collarbone broke free, as her chest rose,
yielding to a satisfying yawn that resulted more from boredom than lack of
sleep. The tiny stream worked its way down her chest skewing left,
following the curve of her right breast. With her head still resting on the
windowpane, she watched the droplet struggle downward, the ultra fine baby
hairs on her sweltering skin challenging every inch of the journey.

She could not remember being so hot. Immediately, she knew that that
thought was a lie – a blatant lie. She had been hotter – much hotter –
soaking in a hard earned sweat only a few hours prior. Gradually, images
crowded past her boredom, casting aside her discomfort, replacing it with
the welcome distraction of the memory of him touching her breasts. An
uncontrolled shiver snaked up her spine, as her nipples hardened at this
welcomed recollection. A smile of remembered satisfaction curled at the
edges of her mouth, as she drew a fingertip across the lingering bead of
sweat that hung suspended on the inside of her right breast. The meaty part
of her thumb grazed the taut nugget of an extended nipple, sending another
shiver through her body, this one centered in the depths of her womanhood.

“Yes,” she whispered to no one, completely lost in a rush of fresh thoughts,
“you can take me like that. Take me. Make me beg for it to end…and then
dare you to stop…all in the same breath.”

She squeezed her breast between the flat of her fingertips and the heel of
her hand, pulling away, pinching her nipple; imagining his lips doing the
very same thing to her. The heat in the room closed tighter upon her flesh,
forcing more moisture out onto her skin. It did not matter now. The heat
was no longer an aggravation. Now it was part of a memory. It had become a
byproduct of her recollection of him – of their fuck. The heat had become a
driver that enabled private lust to come to a full boil deep within her
body, glowing with moist evidence of her arousal. The heat was like a
lingering caress – his caress.

Her hands slid down across her belly erasing the tear-like tracks of
perspiration that preceded her lusty reverie. This was the hot she craved.
One hand slipped between her legs to cup the essence of her womanhood,
holding herself just as he did, not moving, lifting her upward with a
pressure that was his brand of perfection. She thought back to his whisper,
teasing her at the edge of her hearing, telling her how much he liked to
hold her like that, softly describing how he could feel her swelling ever so
slightly, the lubrication of her want melting in the palm of his hand.

The ache was back. Every nerve ending inside of her swollen pussy ached for
the sensation of his agonizingly slow penetration. Every nerve waited to be
sprung. Every nerve waited to release the waves of ecstasy that would crash
inward driving her lust, lifting her to the highest place, transporting her
into the private delirium of complete submission.

She pulled her head from the glass, turning away to face the empty room.
Her hand was still buried in her crotch, the other kneading first one
breast, then the other. Urgency arrived without ceremony, drawing her
toward the bed. Stumbling with a drunken desire she dropped onto the
mattress, rolling onto her back, one leg propped up with her heel digging
into the crumpled sheets, the other planted firmly on the floor. The hand
that held her soaking pussy moved just as he would move his hand. The
secret smile of knowing his presence orchestrated her pleasure spread across
her face, adding to the crimson flush that was already there. Her middle
two fingers dipped into the slickery warmth of his favorite place, spreading
her swollen lips and sliding with a premeditated slowness toward the tiny
pearl that begged for the tip of his tongue. Her fingertips became him.
With robotic precision she emulated the tender oral attention she craved.

Pushing back onto the bed, she thrashed within the grip of a private
passion, arching into self-inflicted manipulations that emulated the
pleasures only he could deliver. She fought the urge to complete herself,
and then, just as he would sense her want for normalcy, she denied herself
the gratification her body screamed for silently. He would never let her
settle for anything less than extraordinary, never permit her to invest
anything less than everything she could possibly stand. She continued; her
journey spiraled upward, building slowly, layer upon layer of pleasing
sensation, muscles flexing and contracting in a rhythm that spelled a most
certain finality. She rose up, her back arching, head thrust back into the
depths of the pillow, both shoulders lifting away from the sheets. It was
her private moment. Ecstasy approached, as she froze in breath and in
heartbeat, poised to push away from the edge, to push away and soar away
into their special place, into their fuck.

The grinding of the ineffective air conditioner droned onward, oblivious to
her transition from suffering an oppressive heat to embracing the
implications of accepting it in the light of a different circumstance. She
collapsed back onto the feather pillow that cradled her head, hair matted
across her forehead, soaked in her passion. Her chest heaved as she fought
to survive the flirtation with a momentary death. The bed smelled of sex.
She pulled the extra pillows close to her and breathed in his scent. The
red numerals on the digital clock confirmed that his departure was a mere
four hours ago. The satisfying ache in the center of her being contradicted
the passing of time, arguing that he had never left.

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