Aching, I dare not stir, my hands a shiver twitch remembering the feather strokes on soft swells. Peaks and valleys, a march, a cadence I’d ne’er felt, the stranger that was me, brazen in the face of the building storm.
Soothing haze tickles and pricks memory still livid from an awakening too delicious to bear, the fruit so sweet it cloys and humbles in its fullness, filling emptiness with luscious warmth, too solemn for voice, too wicked to deny.
Pity and callous youth and the artful stirring of flesh rendered sin harsh and bold, each stroke a revelation, a punishment … glorious rapture pumping veins coiled in tight heat, exploding in joy so sheer, so unexpected, it drained all sensation.
The ease to night heralds beginnings as I await my turn once more, cold coins jingling.