| DISCLAIMER: The following musing, though very mild, could conceivably roil unseemly stirrings in the developing loins of the immature. So, if you are under 18 or unable to discern the distinction between erotic and pornographic, please read no further. |
| I am blessed. Thanks to an early release from the bonds of matrimony due to bad behavior, I have the freedom to do as I please. I am doubly blessed: Since the bad behavior wasn't mine, I have the means and the time to indulge myself in my chosen role of (dermatologists be damned!) sun-worshipper. I am also cursed: Having gotten through the dark night of divorce and come into the light, I located Mr. Right . . . in another country. So my freedom is enjoyed, most of the time, alone. I worship the sun in solitude, and although the climate is warm enough, I warm myself even more by the twin flames of memory and anticipation. Each sunny day, I float in the deep end of my apartment complex's pool, my head tilted back on the ledge below the pool's rim, arms spread cruciform, pink toe-tips punctuating the aqua surface. No doubt I look blase, but as in a Peter Benchley sea-creature novel, much is moving below the surface. Rhythmically, repeatedly, I clench my thighs. The tightening of long sinews provides the bass line to accompany the percussion of my sultry heart thumps. This clenching motion, not so coincidentally, presses together the pouty lips beneath my purple bikini bottom, squeezing, tweaking, awakening the little finger of flesh that is the source of so much delight to me and to my man. Thud, thud goes my heart, and its magisterial tattoo is echoed by the smothered thump! thump! within the apex of my triangle. I dream of *him*, the sun around whom I orbit, and my body grows warmer and wetter still as my mind spins in the familiar, well-loved groove. The sun above me is no hotter than my passion. I access recall, resurrecting the sensation of my lover's hands, his beautiful hands with their square, cushioned palms and stalwart fingers - so clean, so carefully manicured, dusted on their backs with freckles and gilded with red-gold hairs. I squeeze my thighs together and imagine those fingers, those sturdy ivory probes, carefully and with a master's knowledge separating each plump bulge, every pleat, each fold of warm and willing womanhood. In my mind, those warm and knowing digits slide home, traveling the well-known and -loved interior pathways that lead to the heart of my desire, as one thumb -- oh! how can so blunt an appendage be so artful? -- traces loving circles around the rosy site of ecstasy that crowns and guards my entrance. All unheeding, I begin to draw circles with my hips as I float, alone and unremarked, in happy solitude at the empty end of the pool. The engine of my desire stirs the limpid water like a slow, sensuous, soft propeller. Discreet little waves, sent northward by my sinuous writhing, lap at my barely covered breasts like lovers' tongues. I sigh, and arch my back. I raise my chin so the sun that burnishes my brow may kiss the pulse now pounding in my throat. Inside my eyelids, all is at once dark and rosy; I imagine that I am gazing into my own interior channels. I arch my back; my nipples arch themselves, breaking the surface and straining the spandex bonds that confine them. On I dream, of him who has no equal. A tuneless yet compelling hum vibrates in my throat, which longs to be filled with something more palpable than song. I rotate my arms so that they lie palm down along the ledge. Heedless of my manicure, I etch my frustration into its concrete surface. On I dream of various things . . . . . . of long-held prejudice against hairy backs, now replaced by a longing to entwine my fingers in that manly fringe and hang on for dear life; . . . of the rosy incongruity of his tiny, hard nipples rising like miniature twin suns at dawn among the clouds of soft hair on his chest; . . . of the unparalleled beauty of dainty apricots in a smocked rose-velvet carrier decorated with the finest tracing of red-gold silk; . . . of the fine-grained, milky skin that sheathes the hard, masculine muscle of his inner thighs. Still humming to myself, I cross my legs at the ankle to increase the pressure on my center, now soaked by the water of the pool and by the liquid of life within me. I dream of our reunion, mentally ranking the decorum of various welcomes. Shall I limit myself to a big hug and brief, businesslike kiss? Or will I drop his jaw with my thumbs and set my tongue to dancing with his? Dare I slide my fingers under his shirt, over his ribs to flutter above his heart? May I, secure in his arms, wrap one tanned leg about his waist to suggest my enthusiasm? Smiling to myself, I shake my head at my own appalling imagination. I return to dreaming and the slow, rhythmic tense-relax of my solitary, horizontal dance. Suddenly, a shadow falls across my sun; a voice, startlingly near my shoulder, whispers, "Having fun?" I do not know the source; I do not recognize the voice; I do not care. I am tuned to but one pitch, and the instrument that plays it is far, far away. "Mmmm, hmmm," I reply, close-lipped, and return, a shade more discreetly now, to my aquatic reverie. |
| Aquacize © 1998 by Volponia@aol.com. Do not distribute, by any means, privately or publicly, for profit or for pleasure, without the author's prior written consent. If, however, this memoir has the intended effect, feel free to masturbate. |
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