by Lena Bourne
“No,” I moan. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t, kissing my neck and my lips and even my rock hard and very sensitive nipples as his fingers gently rub my clit, the blizzard of sparks now a river a flame, splitting me, showing me another reality, one I never expected to see. One I didn’t know existed.
I whimper and moan as his finger enters me, hard and unyielding and so very big. But the flow of warmth that follows as he pushes it in then slides it in and out a few times is quickly letting me know I’ve seen nothing yet.
His finger goes deeper and deeper waking sensations so new to me I have nothing to compare them to. As he adds a second finger I dig my nails into his hard muscle again. Not from pain, not really.
“You can take it,” he whispers into my ear, right before kissing it, and as he pushes his fingers in and out of me, rubbing my clit with his thumb, his tongue playing with my ear. I just let go. Of all fear, all thought, all but the sensations he’s waking in me for the first time.
And find he’s absolutely right.
The golden light outside and the fiery river of pleasure inside me are one now, so seamlessly blended that my heart’s not pumping blood through my veins, but pure, cleansing light. The light of dawn. Of rebirth. Of pure pleasure and bliss.
Its many layers and tints unfold inside me, each more desirable, better, more pleasurable than the last.
Until I’m breathing light and seeing bliss.
Until my whole body fills with pleasure so strong, so deep, so very good, I never want its waves to stop washing over me.
Blaze
She’s curled into my side, her sparkling blue eyes closed, her breathing shallow and fast, her heart beating fast and soft like a tiny bird’s against my palm on her back. She’s just as delicate as a bird. That’s what she reminds me of, most of all. A tiny, delicate, innocent bird. Just like the one I picked up off the ground beneath the thick oak growing in the back yard of my childhood home. The one that couldn’t fly after its mother pushed it out of the nest. The one they just let lie there after the rest flew away.
“It’s a sparrow,” my uncle Reggie told me as I showed it to him.
He found me halfway up the tree holding the bird as gently as I could as I navigated the thick branches one-handed, looking for the nest.
I found the nest, but it was empty. Reggie helped me nurse the bird until it finally flew away.
I don’t want to think about Reggie. I don’t want to remember him because I’ll never see him again in this life. But that late-afternoon scene is unfolding vividly and brightly in my mind. Our run-down house, the walls mostly made of lopsided corrugated metal sheets, wooden slabs, and drywall well past its prime, due to all the additions to the main house, which was made of wood and has stood there since Wild West times. Reggie lived in a similarly run-down trailer out back, not far from the oak tree. That trailer was white, to begin with, I always assumed, but there was no way to tell because the grime of the ages had eaten away all of the original color and newness long before I was even born.
A lot of my relatives lived in trailers just as sad and decrepit as Reggie’s, dotted around the field of grass behind the tall wooden fence encircling our family’s plot of land. Some lived in houses just as run-down as my childhood home. The fence kept us safeish. But what little grass still grew in the yard turned brown long before the worse of the summer heat each year. For most of the year, it was all just dry dirt. Not in spring. Then it was wet mud. Or in winter, when it was covered in snows and ice.
The oak tree is where that woman, the one whose death caused all the grief, had hung herself. One of its thickest branches is still scored from the coarse, thick rope she used for the job.
I never wanted to see that and I sure as fuck don’t want to be seeing it now. Not with the purest, most innocent, and gentlest woman lying in my arms, recovering from her first orgasm. The one I gave her.
But I can’t unsee it. There’s no point fighting it. I’m on my way back.
Then she opens her eyes, their sparkling blue light washing over me as she smiles.
And the sorry, dried-up vision of my childhood home is gone like a nightmare fades once you wake up.
“What was that?” she breathes, speaking barely over a whisper.
“You liked that,” I say and smile back.
Not even the very first time I lost myself in another person did I feel this good, this content, this happy to just be in the moment and let nothing intrude.
“I did,” she says as she rises, balancing on her elbow and grinning down at me, her silky soft hair brushing against my chest. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”
I grin too. “That was nothing. You just wait.”
My cock is rock hard and pulsing, but the need to relieve it is not pressing at my mind clouding all other thoughts for some reason. Just looking at her is enough.
She runs her hand down my chest, her touch as soft as a feather, or a blade of grass in the summer breeze.
“You promise?” she asks, looking down at her pale, delicate hand against the black hair and blacker tats on my chest. The date I left home, the date I thought I left all the insane, pointless killing behind is engraved on my chest in large numerals. That date is pointless now. Now, it’s just the date on which I decided to take a short, three-year break from my life. I might as well replace it with this new one. The one on which I decided to go blazing back, taking the purest thing I’ve ever seen with me. I must be insane.
“Where did you go just then?” she asks softly, her sparkling eyes searching mine.
I’m so glad she can’t see the darkness behind them. If she could, she’d never let me touch her, or hold her, or kiss her. I’m positive of that.
“Never mind,” I say, rise and kiss her.
Because when I kiss her, nothing else matters. Not death, not darkness, not loss, and not grief. They just plain don’t exist when her lips touch mine.
But I have a very strong feeling that this bliss won’t last forever.
So we best make the most of it while we can.
Misti
Whatever is the cause of that black void in his eyes that is always there, looming just beneath the surface of that softness that’s just for me, must be too dark to name. Clearly, since he won’t talk about it.
And as the golden light of day spills over us through the small window of this motel room, warming my back and making everything sparkly and new, I don’t want him to. Not yet. We’ll have time to talk about it. Or not.
Probably not.
My attacks are growing more frequent than they were since my operation. They’re not as frequent as they were before, but maybe that’s just a matter of time now.
It could just be all the excitement and movement during the last few days.
It could.
Or it could be a reversal back to the way my life used to be.
A slow, steady, boring, and calm waiting for death. Waiting for the morning that doesn’t come. The night that doesn’t end. The emptiness that stays forever.
I’m not going back to that life. Not even through fearing it.
I slide my hands over the date tattooed on his chest again, my fingers getting tangled in the hair growing over it and making me feel softly aroused again. Ready for more.
December 6th.
“Did you know you have my birth date tattooed on your chest?” I say softly and smile. “Not the year, obviously, I’m older than three.”
He’s just looking at me with very wide eyes, the darkness buried so deep beneath the soft golden light of wonder I can just about pretend I don’t see it.
“Man, that’s something,” he finally says in a breathless, awe-filled voice.
“Something good?” I ask and giggle.
He nods, his lips not quite stretched into a smile, but trying to get there. “Maybe… Possibly…”
He chuckles. “I sure hope so, is what I’m trying to say.”
“But what is that date to you
?” I ask.
“It’s the day I left home and everything to do with it behind,” he says, the darkness in his eyes driving a wide wedge through the gleaming softness in his eyes, demanding to break through the surface and break us apart too.
I know of only one way to make it disappear again. Maybe in time, I’ll learn better, more permanent ways. If we have that kind of time. But right now, nothing will stand in the way of the bliss he has shown me.
I lean down and kiss him, the touch of his hot lips against mine sending a volley of sparks straight to my heart, making it beat faster, but also steadier, healthier.
When it comes to men, I never kissed anything other than their lips. Not even his. And that’s about to change right now.
I kiss his cheek next, but only as a short pause on my way to his neck. I feel his breath rushing past my lips as I do that again, touching perhaps the softest, most vulnerable part of his body.
His body is taut, his breath hoarse and jagged as my lips travel down further still to kiss the tattoo on his chest that might as well be there just for me too. Then the spot right over his heart, which I hope will one day be just mine too.
His stomach is next, the peaks and valleys hard, yet pliant under my kisses, hot as the desert, as sweet as a warm, sweet tea on a cold night.
I want to go further. My body and that river of sparkly, fiery desire in the pit of my stomach want me to go further. But I’m suddenly very aware of myself and just how little I know about men and situations like this. His boxers are tenting up from his rock-hard cock and his whole body is rock hard too, thrumming slightly in his anticipation of my kisses on their downwards path.
But what if I mess up?
What if I’m a total disappointment?
What if?
He chuckles, breaking the panicked train of my thoughts.
“Go on,” he says. “Keep going.”
I look at the valley made by his clavicle just beneath his Adam’s apple because I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
“What if I do it wrong?”
The words just tumble out of my mouth. I certainly wish they hadn’t. He laughs and makes my cheeks grow even hotter. I bet I’m redder in the face than I’ve ever been right now.
“There’s really no way to mess it up,” he says. “Not one I can imagine, anyway.”
He laughs again and the embarrassed tightness in my chest, which has nothing to do with my fluttering heart, I don’t think, lessens.
“OK,” I say, my voice barely audible since I was speaking more to myself than him. More to the burning, roiling desire deep in my belly, and the sobering, cold doubt in my mind.
He slides his boxers down, and the shock of seeing a man’s penis for the first time in real life is quickly replaced by nothing short of fear. Or maybe awe. His cock is so thick. Telling him that is on the tip of my tongue as I lock eyes with him. There’s no darkness anywhere in his, only an amused twinkle at what I can only assume is my red-cheeked reaction to seeing his penis. No need to compound that embarrassment by saying something stupid.
Nor do I want to talk anymore. I want to kiss him some more.
My hands are literally shaking as I reach to touch his rock-hard cock, and his gasp as my fingertips brush against it tells me he’s in no mood for talking either.
I was wrong. This is the softest part of him. I love it.
I love the pulsing of the blood as it rushes in right under my fingers, love the velvety feel of it as it pulses in my palms, love the strong heartbeat I can feel there.
If I use both my palms it fits in my hands very nicely and I run them up and down a few times, awed at the weight, mesmerized at the softness. His breathing is hoarse and jagged, and his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them as I glance up to see if I’m doing it right. I’m not even sure he can see me, let alone read the question in my eyes. But he smiles and nods anyway, as though maybe he can.
I smile back, though that’s not what I want to be doing with my lips. I want to keep kissing him.
So I lean over and do just that because I can. Because it’s the only thing I want to do.
I kiss the softest part first, the quivering head, making his cock grow even harder in my hands. But I don’t stop there, I keep going, kissing along the pulsing vein that brings the blood and the heartbeat. All along it and back down.
By the time I’m at the head again, I want to do more than just kiss.
I’ve never done this before. I never even thought much about doing it. But it’s as natural as breathing. I lick the head, its softness sweeter than any candy I’ve ever tasted, better than ice cream and chocolate, better than honey.
I do it again and again, running my palms over his shaft as I do, because that makes his breathing more jagged and his groans of pleasure louder.
The groan that escapes his chest as I wrap my lips around the head is loud enough to shake the foundations of this motel. And it tells me loud and clear that I’m doing just fine, that experience is not something I need to make this perfect for him. And for me.
I take my time, enjoying every single lick and kiss, every flick of my tongue along the soft head. I open my mouth wider to see how much of it I can take into my mouth. And gag almost immediately to yet another earth-shaking groan from him.
“I’m gonna come soon,” he says in a hoarse whisper.
“OK,” I say and wrap my lips back around his cock where they belong.
I might have spoken too fast. His semen spills into my mouth in an almost searing river, filling me, making it impossible to breathe.
Not that I need to.
Not that I want to.
This—giving him as much pleasure as he gave me—that’s the only thing I want to be doing. Besides, this is one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. And one of the best things I ever tasted. Who knew?
15
Blaze
I damn near had a heart attack when she told me the date I left home is also her birthday. I don’t gotta think too hard to know that’s significant. From the moment I first saw her outside her home all those months ago, I knew she was significant. That she was meant for me. Clearly, I somehow knew it three years ago too. I suppose I left home to find her. I don’t want to follow that line of thinking.
I’ve made my choice.
And despite all the byroads and back roads I’ve taken us down until now, we’re halfway to my destination. The one where we’ll say goodbye forever.
Lying in a soft bed with her in my arms, it’s easy to forget that. To see the future clearly and not as a black hole at the end of this ride. But with the road whooshing under the tires of my bike and the sky turning dark yellow in sunset, it’s not.
There’s nothing for her at the end of this road.
Because there’s nothing there for me.
I can pretend though. And I will pretend. Until the very end. Until I can’t pretend anymore.
The green waters of Utah Lake are shimmering in the distance now. The perfect site for our second date, I thought, when I decided to take us along this route when we left Vegas.
The country road that brought us here is deserted. We haven’t met another traveler for hours and no one is there at the small lakeside picnic area I pull into.
“This place is gorgeous,” she says in a sleepy voice, as the bike stopping wakes her. She fell asleep against my back, and I held her arms to my waist with one hand the whole ride, afraid she’d fall off, afraid she’d fly away. I don’t remember the last time I cared this much about anyone. This deeply. This seamlessly. Maybe it was that little sparrow I saved. I was very sad when it finally flew away and I hoped it would come back, but it never did.
The vivid green of the lake is reflected in her clear blue eyes as she stares across it, as are the distant mountains. None of that beauty compares to the serene bliss on her face as she watches it.
“I never thought I’d travel,” she tells me as she smiles at me. “Thank you.”
“I just wish th
ere were nicer things to show you on this road,” I say.
She grabs my hand in both of hers, her eyes wide and shocked. “Don’t put yourself down so much. What you’ve already shown me is amazing.”
I shrug, change her grip so I’m holding her hand, and lead her to the bench closest to the water. “I thought we could watch the sunset here. I bet it’s very nice.”
I don’t let go of her hand as we sit side by side on the bench.
She stares off across the water, at the sky that’s just beginning to turn dark orange and red along the horizon. I watch it all in her clear blue eyes.
“You haven’t seen much beauty in your life, have you?” she asks in a faraway voice that’s so dreamy I’m not even sure she actually spoke.
“I’ve seen you,” I say and chuckle. “That’s more than enough beauty.”
She looks at me and her eyes are full of pity as deep as the lake before us.
“I don’t think you should go back home,” she says. “That’s where the darkness in your eyes comes from. “
The breath I was taking slams against the back of my throat painfully.
“I’m going home,” I say past the pain. It comes out harsh and angry because of that pain, but that’s not how I meant it. Her eyes flutter and she takes the quietest sharp breath before looking away.
Good. I don’t want her pity. I want her everything else, but never that.
Not that it matters, because I’ll never have any of what I want from her. Or anything else, for that matter. Not for long anyway.
I let go of her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Sorry. It’s better we don’t talk about where I’m headed.”
She looks at me from the sides of her eyes. “Clearly. But I’m being serious though. What’s so different now? To the day you left, I mean? The day that was so important to you that you put it on your chest?”
Man, she’s asking some pointed questions and I was never good at dealing with those. I don’t want to ever be angry at her, we don’t have enough time for that, but I’m kinda starting to be.