Clair de lune

moon-claire-de-luneTonight he returns. It’s been three long, tedious weeks of staring at my bound-in-synthetic-plaster leg, and sighing from the heat — and tonight he boards the plane to return.

There are several important and significant people who inspire in me a need to put my feelings into black and white. This one is the one who is *the one* — if that makes any sense.

I love them all, my men. Each in their own way delights and excites me — else why would I spend my time with them. And I care for them all deeply. They all know that exclusivity is not my way, and they accept it — I’m upfront about that from the word go. But there is one with whom I share the bond of the soulmate — and it is he of whom I write in this particular piece.

How do I describe that oh-so-subtle something that sets him apart? I do not wish in any way to sound overly sentimental and kitschy, so I turn instead to the higher power of Claude Debussy. The beauty of this piece in particular (and I have deliberately linked to the extended version) uses music to say the words that, for once, are failing my fingers.

What can I tell you? It must be love. It is love.


Intensity and release

closeness-keeps-the-fire-burningDown the length of my body, my eyes meet his. A lazy, half-curled smile on his lips as he contemplates his next move. A hand slithers beneath me, and tugs me down further towards him, swivelling me until our bodies cross, and gently lifting me by the neck to him.

Way to make me anticipate a kiss, cheri.

He plants feathery kisses all over my body, in a way which reminds me of schoolboy crushes, from before I moved beyond the realms of virginity, from before I knew what else was out there… from when this was the ultimate in what turned my knees to jelly. Surprisingly, with him at least, it still does.

I return the favour by nibbling on his shoulder, and am rewarded with an affectionate growl of arousal. He kisses my mouth again, buries his head in the space between my chin and my breasts, and sighs loud and long.

It’s the most vocal communication we have for a while, save my own sighs, and his cries and grunts, and is the prelude to some of the most incredible and passionate physical intimacy I’ve ever experienced. We’re entwined in various permutations for literally hours, and I peak over and over and over again*, each time wondering whether I have it in me to achieve yet another orgasm. (I do.)

When he — finally — allows himself to climax, I am sat astride him; my skin glows in the dimmed light, my breath shallow and gasping, his no less so. He mutters something inaudible in French, but I catch the words “J’aime” and “ta chatte” and have a good idea of what it was that he said. Gently, I extricate myself and softly tumble down next to him, as he gathers me close. He strokes my skin, and I his.

We exhale… and smile.

* I lost count at eleven. Swear to dog.