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Within You, Without You [SolM]

Oct 20, 2018
London, U.K.
I collapsed onto the soft, enveloping duvet, and that's when I saw you.

Your hair framed you like a gold halo, an unseen breeze catching each loose strand. A puff, the breeze from the half open train window struck me and sent shivers down my spine. The setting sun cast pink rays racing across the one exposed patch of city sky, illuminating you, burning you into my dreams.

I should have been focused on my book. I should have been distracted by the thumping music in my ears. The bass kicked in, the treble faded ethereally, distantly a hi-hat trilled, and your angular eyebrows flexed. I grew hard.

You were there with me astride the white duvet. I felt each pleasurable scratch of every fibre in my clothes, my flesh goosebumped and alert to sensation. Your plump lips pursed, still so red after a day at work, and I bled to feel those crimson pillows against mine. My hand went down to past my midriff, and cradled what was trapped below.

Was it a crowded train? I bathed in your flushed skin for hours, feeling the warmth spilling forth from your blushing cleavage wrap around me. I gripped myself with urgency now, my actions automatic as my mind swam in thoughts of you.

Your legs, long and bare, were crossed mountain ranges. Would that I was their sherpa. Had I read the same page already? The paragraphs melted away into a murky tar-like pool of obscure darkness the colour of the sky above Nod, in the land East of Eden. I was tempting myself, and how could I not when we shared the same journey in and out of the city each day, five times a week? Was that me you were looking at yesterday? Your manicured nails played across your lap, your eyes sparkling at the faint light of the screen nestled therein. I knew they were emeralds, and lusted for them on the soft duvet.

The cold air shocked me as my hard warmth met it, my shorts dragged down in playful twisting and turning. Each stroke elicited a cry of saltish tears atop the glistening crown, each stroke was fueled with thoughts of you.

Your fingers played through your hair, the long locks draping down, framing your feline features. I imagined the taste of your cherry chapstick, the tickle of your tongue against my own as you fell atop me on my marshmallow soft bed, as each curve and cave of our bodies fit together like the last pieces of a puzzle. I knew the flutter of your eyelashes as your mouth dripped drops of clear saliva into mine, and our pink tongues hugged in more than camaraderie. I trailed my fingers behind your ear and through your golden locks. Our breathing deepened and your chest seemed to spill out onto mine, our hard pebbles grating against their counterparts. I gyrated, gripped myself unknowingly, and spilled forth hot and creamy as you sighed into my mouth. Even as I dreamed, I shivered and pumped, coating us where we ground into each other, and I gave myself to the ghost of you.

I would never try to know you, the city made sure of that; yet, still, I knew you as intimately as any lover.
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