Here we go on another Wednesday trip down flash alley. This week I've written a special Valentine story. I've done a complete U turn and wrote about women for a change :)
I chose this prompt
The faintest whisper of breath across my lips; the lightest brush of finger tips over my breast, sets my body tingling and tightens the deep parts of me that have been slack for so long.
Moisture pools within the cave of my thighs and the cloying bed sheets are uncomfortable against my prickly skin. Tossing and turning brings no relief, only more unendurable memories.
I close my eyes and let my hands explore my body. My fingertips trail where no others have been for oh so long. I tremble and twitch as I find and explore the most intimate parts of me and, as I delve deeper into my own sacred pool, my mind opens and she is here.
It’s no longer my fingers that slip and slide, desperately seeking those sweet spots that make flowers bloom and fireworks sizzle behind my closed eyelids. She was always good at finding them, thrusting deep inside me to scrape with her fingernail at the place where heaven waits to wrap me in its delicious abandon. And all the while her thumb creating magic of its own. She’s the only person I have ever slept with who was able to bring my clitoris so completely to life, sometimes without even touching it. I have never been able to achieve that myself, but tonight I’m giving it my best shot.
I feel her spirit so strongly as ghostly fingers stroke my belly and cold, spirit lips suckle at my nipple. Oh God she was so good at that. The incoherent moans that escape my lips are given form and float into the distance whispering ‘Mary’.
My hips rise from the bed as my slick fingers thrust deeper and deeper, all attempts at finesse with my clit forgotten. Harder and harder I pinch my delicate areola, rolling the nipple in its rosy bed. Oh God I feel the pressure build. It’s been so long, so long. There’s a damn about to burst and I want to drown in the sweetness of the memory of how, so many times I have lain in this bed and heard her whisper in my ear.
“Come for me, darling.” The voice comes from the shadows, the ghost of a breeze bringing it to my ear and with it comes the inevitability of the end. All things end. All things have their time and tonight is my time to burst the dam, as her voice carries me over the edge.
Hot liquid spurts between my legs dampening the sheet beneath me. No one could make me come like Mary could and, it seems, still can. Panting, I lie and stare at the ceiling, my stomach still twitching with the rhythmic spasms of my orgasm. I close my eyes and hear her breathing next to me. I feel the sheets slide over me as she moves, the weight of her arm on my pulsing belly. I moan aloud and the sound is swallowed by her sighs. “Mary.”
I’m not really a superstitious person but this morning when I woke there was a white feather on the pillow. My mother told me when I was very young that white feathers come from angels and if I find one it means a dream will come true. I haven’t thought about my mother for a long time and, as I sat and twirled the feather between my fingers, a few tears escaped. I miss her. I miss them all. I felt so lonely in that moment.
I shook myself, got up and made breakfast, forever practical. A bowl of cereal and a strong black coffee later and I still can’t shake the dream. I’m still tingling. My nipple is sore and I’m damned if I can work out whether that part of it was a dream or not. Did I masturbate to thoughts of my lost love? Or did I dream the whole thing? Damn Valentine’s Day. The whole bloody day yesterday was full of hearts and flowers and dreams of love. I had those dreams once. One year I bought Mary a giant chocolate heart. It took us three weeks to eat it all. Some of it, we melted and…
Anyway, there’s no point in looking back. That part of my life it’s over now, long gone. When I made the choice to move to London, I left it all behind. Left them all behind. Mary made her choice too, to stay. I’ve not heard from her in three years.
Something of dream still lingers and I smile at the memory of her touch, her smell. Unconsciously, my hand brushes my nipple then slips between my legs, lightly brushing my panties which are suddenly damp. Oh delicious decadence, to be masturbating at the breakfast table. Oh. Oh.
The knock at the door takes me completely by surprise and my face is flaming with guilty embarrassment as I hurry to answer, smoothing down my dress and hoping my fingers don’t smell.
There are balloons. There are roses. There is chocolate.
“You’re a day late,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m three years late,” she says, her beautiful voice warm like melting honey, the sweet Irish lilt going straight to my groin as I hear the echo of her dreamed words. Come for me, darling.
She looks uncertain now, the smile fading, her arms drooping from the weight of all the pinkness. “Am I too late?”
“If you’re staying.”
Mary smiles, her glorious green eyes alight with a fire kindled by her flaming red locks. “As long as you’ll have me, darling. If you’ll have a stubborn fool who should have taken the ferry years ago.”
“Oh, I’ll take you, Mary Flynn. I’ll take you right here and now.”
Chocolate, ribbon, balloons, flowers and clothes make a path to my bedroom. Bright afternoon sun streams through my window as Mary whispers for the third time today.
“Come for me, darling.”
Now go check out or valentine lovers and their sweet stories