When I touched her between the legs I felt nothing. Oh, I felt flesh, I felt fluid, I felt her shiver and heard her gasp in response, but what I felt was nothing that could be named. All I knew instinctively was that this is Marlena; her heat, it flowed, it slid beneath my fingers, wrapped itself around them, a clasp ancient as all time and thrilling too, as immediacy piled on immediacy.
Marlena; my very soul. I was made to love her like this. For the third time while she was still married to another, she surrendered her heart to me and gave me the gift of touching her where it made her mine. Only mine.
I once told her I would take her under any circumstance and by God that was true. And there we were, in my bed, giving into our passion; giving into our undeniable love for one another, yet again.
Touching her there, where her sex hovered and flowed under my fingers, the full length and fleshy pads of my right hand’s first two fingers, I felt, slipping along this enfolding too soft for flesh, too warm for mere body heat, too wet for casual explanation, all folding beneath, under and around my fingers. As always when I am with her, I feel I am keying access to another place altogether; out of this world; a place that takes me beyond even my most extravagant expectation of what touching her there could ever have been. She is like a drug and I simply cannot stay away.
First two fingers pressed together, the groove between them sliding bewteen her parted lips. I felt the gap where my fingers met the palm of my hand fitting over the sensitive nub of her clitoris, which leant after them as I slid my fingers down, the point of the first seeking the way inside her, the slightly longer finger beside, held back eventually accepting to follow in. Her nub of pleasure, never untouched, I was trying to plumb the length, the width, the depths, the parting unique to her; My Marlena.
I cannot help but wonder, has he ever loved her this way? Ever just given her love or pleasure, without expecting anything in return?
She’s full here, all flesh and eager response; almost hungry it seems… for love?
… and I have my answer. Selfish bastard! This woman only knows how to give and give some more. I should know.
Compelled, I double my ministrations. My fingers and palm send messages that dry my throat, the thick, wet stuff of her gluing all four fingers together as they slide between her lips that felt like nothing… nothing… I could barely feel her for wet. But sensation is sprinting up my arm, exploring by-ways in my brain that react to her reactions…
Oh John, oh, oh God…
She cries out my name. Mine. Not his. Mine. She is mine. Oh the pure satisfaction. Each fresh sensation ancient as amoebic mud, and they percuss out of her as my hand, failing to find purchase, there is nothing there to hold onto, slips deeper into the runnel of her sex, her clitoris now up inside the hollow of my palm, as my fingers, those first two, twinned to her interior, search deeper, bent a little. My prints, the whorls of my fingertips feeling the smooth shivering tension of her inside flesh, trying desperately to leave their mark unlike a thief. I am not a thief; she is mine… and I want the world to know it.
That palm, flexing down flat, then up away like the cupola of a heretics cathedral, a church of ecstatic union presses and billows, drumming her clitoris, drumbeats that set off her piteous, reverberating cries and the rhythmic shaking through her torso, her legs.
She raises her legs, her feet flat, tattooing on the surface of the bed, shoving away the bedclothes as she quickly swings her head back and her jawbone slams against my upper lip, crushing it. I taste the coppery blood.
It has been months since our encounter on the conference room table. Her kiss is borne of desperation and lonliness; a desperation and lonliness only I can even begin to understand and share with her; only I can take it away; This is how it feels to be a man. We share our mutual pain and punish each other for our inevitable attraction and consumation as our tongues lash out almost violently.
My fingers, my hand, they have vanished, lost to me in the portal to another universe that is the heat and flow and intangible grasping, encompassing, imprisoning of her sex. I cannot feel fingers or hand except every urgency of my senses is focused right there where the two of us meet in intimacy that is all sensation and beyond it too, and the movement of my fingers, deeper inside her now, exploring, finding everywhere flesh, soft and clasping, liquid close and saturating, is a movement that has nothing to do with my muscles or intent. It is all responses and intuition.
Her body is setting a rhythm I’ve found and joined.
Everything bewteen us is response and reaction; fusing, fusing, every milimetre of my flesh tingling and flaring, her heat and mine mixing, merging, rising and she is all movement, every muscle of her, tightening toes, clenched-shut eyelids, arching back, mouth agape, in a tarantella of such abandon that for a moment I am frightened. I fear I will not be able to keep up.
But the fear is evaporated by sensation, and I stay with her, led now, partnering but following, each movement telling me what she wants, and where and how hard, how soft, how smooth, slower, softer, quicker, quicker, quicker now and I am gone too, my mind abolishing all sense, even amazement, for I am amazed, she’s amazed me, but even amazement is gone now. I can’t think of anything. Nothing is considered; not even Roman. Nothing is decided; not even out future. Nothing is applied; not even logic.
She is taking me beyond awareness of what to do – it is all happening outside thought, experience, practice. She moves her head again, but I have moved my face quick enough not to be collected on the mouth, and her head moves back and forth, back and forth swift enough to snap a neck under normal circumstances. She slows as I flick her golden tresses over her right shoulder, exposing her neck to me from my position behind her. My mouth finds that soft skin at the hollow bewteen her neck and shoulder.
Without warning,
I latch onto it like a leech trying to draw blood. I imagine it is exquisitely painful as I ruthlessly suck her skin leaving my mark, selfishly hoping it will be found tomorrow. Her teeth gritted, and sounds, oh the most glorious sounds ground out between them; sounds that are part ecstacy, part fear, part pain, part exhilaration, part awe, part desperation; all escaping with no inhibitions.
My fingers are squeezed tight, my palm and wrist distorted out of shape as though her juices have softened my bones, as she closes those amazing thighs around me, a whisper from her lips, so sweet, paralysed with orgasm…
mmmm John…
It spills forth like a declaration of love and I am certain in that one moment that only I can make her feel this way. Those lips speak only my name. For once, I am not sorry, Roman.
Her back arched, knees white against each other where she’s pressing them and she comes like a rock, frozen, containing, shaking so deep within that when the paralysis is released, 10 ,15 seconds later, the shaking does not explode from her in series, but is one large bubble of release, great inside, expanding, expanding, rainbow brilliant and wobbling, that bursts and releases her, from a pain, from a delirium and leaves her hot, wet, her body soaked with sweat, mine and hers, and juices hers that have run down the conjunction of her thighs onto me, under her, matting the hair of my genitals.
We are soaking, all soft, shaking against each other, my fingers still inside, cradled now, held unlocked and when her head turns this time so that her lips meet mine, our kiss is a seal and promise of forever as her hand slides between us to reach my own slick hardness.
End.
The Jarlena Journal 