I lay in bed thinking about
him, wishing that I wasn’t. Thinking leads to touching. Touching leads to feeling. Feelings lead to associations. The thought of him associated with those intimate touches. So easily slipping into a fantasy of him touching me, rather than the stark reality.
I am alone in my bed, squirming restlessly at the image of him in my mind. Inescapable. Taunting.
It’s true what they say- that there’s a fine line between love and hate. Fortunate then that I wasn’t in love with him. This was merely a crush. An infatuation. A passing fancy even.
But the fine line I was straddling? Not between love and hate – but between lust and decorum. Decency and recklessness. Propriety and carelessness.
I wanted him. Perhaps he knew it. Perhaps he recognized the symptoms. He continued to be as agreeable as ever, yet gave no sign of encouragement. Disappointing.
The passion and unfulfilled lust fueled my anger and frustration. What is at the moment a mere crush, could quickly turn to resentment and rejection. Soon I would become cold and aloof in an attempt at self-preservation.
All this was in my head of course. The possibility exists that he knows nothing at all of my yearning. Surely he would react in some way if he suspected what he became to me at night. Alone. In my bed. How he became my object. My slave. There only to venerate and pleasure me.
It seemed impossible to me suddenly that the acts that he and I practiced in each night would not psychically resonate with him in some way. How as is it that each night for hours on end, he could engage in the most primal acts of carnal violation and not know it?
How could he not sense how intimately and thoroughly and creatively we explored each others’ bodies? I felt that my longing should have crashed over him in waves.
How I wanted to taste his tongue and let my hands roam all over him. That I wanted to experience his arousal. To own it. To create those same associations of lust and heat in his head that he had already created in mind.
Could the universe have such a cruel sense of humour? To gift one person with this sense of passion and heat yet grant the other with obliviousness, or at best neutrality? Surely the gods would plan it better than that. It seemed like such a waste to allow such discordant energies to simply waft into obscurity.
But I sensed no such mystical connection between us. No surreptitious glances from him, nor any heroic effort at self-restraint. He was simply…content as we were. Or so he believed that we were. Or worse, as he
hoped that we were. Friendly acquaintances.
Has there ever been a more desolate sounding phrase? Friendly acquaintances. Who in the history of man has ever wished for such mediocrity?
Why wouldn’t you covet surging passion and incapacitating desire? To know that someone longs to enslave you in a state of sublime wanton bliss. How could a person settle for anything less once they’ve experienced that?
But he doesn’t know. Perhaps he’s never tasted it – the knowledge that someone next to him is quivering with licentious ardor and he is the object. That while I smile pleasantly and respond inanely my eyes are devouring him.
My demure lowering of eyelashes disguises the truth. The image flashing through my head of crawling into his lap, putting my tongue in his mouth while feeling his mounting hardness, and brushing my breasts against his chest.
If he could catch a glimpse of the fantasies in my head I wonder how he would react. Shock? Alarm? Or would the heat penetrate him? Create unexpected sensations in the most intimate of places?
Although far from virtuous, my intentions towards him were honourable. I had no plans to lure him to my lair and seduce him unwillingly. No schemes to flirt and grope and make him uncomfortable.
Such a pity that one cannot simply revel in the make-believe. That one cannot merely covet and be coveted without thought for the consequences. Consequences. Those intangible results utterly tainting my caramel-flavoured thoughts.
So I lie in bed each night. Continuing the violation of bodies alone. Struggling to command feelings of resentment and imaginary rejection with those of liquid heat and arousal.
oper mood. It all started out innocently enough- me strutting out in a rainbow of chemises and babydolls. But when I came out in the white merry widow ensemble, things changed. Suddenly he was all over me, not willing to even wait for the parking lot.
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