Thin prisms of light break free from the cloud cover, dance through the north-facing windows of an old English inspired Tudor, bounce off the carved crystal bowl resting atop a marble table across the bed from me and come to a check-mate style stand off right there. The swirling energy of light, throbbing and pulsing against it's constraints, all dressed up with no-where to go, rouses me from my dreaming tree.
Silent and dim, save the puddle of brilliance above me, the room goes lacking. Wanting. Waiting. It is almost painfully devoid of the raw emotions, the heady and intense passion of only hours before. Our blatant impulsivity has slipped quietly unnoticed into the languid tranquility of now. Despite the paradigm shift, I realize that nothing truly tangible has changed. I am beginning to suspect that the metamorphosis is mine alone. My eyes are open now: slowly, carefully, as if to test the temperature of the mid-spring tidal waters. The heaviness of our lack of rest compels me to close them tight and blink away the last vestiges of sleep. I notice briefly before my eyelids slam shut that the venue remains unaltered. The environment is identical to the point I fell back against the delicate toile pillows and fell fast asleep, exhausted, spent, and at peace.
Slightly rough white-washed walls, all still standing, surround me in sheer defiant spite of the earth-shattering orgasms my lover skillfully elicited from the very nucleus of my soul. Parquet flooring that I fondly recall feeling delectably cold and smooth against my bare feet. Over-sized walnut and wrought-iron furniture dominate the suite. An antique four-poster bed and ornate iron headboard are the focal point of the room, my fantasies and other, more intriguing and fleeting notions. Pale slip-covered chairs, dainty linens, the subtle period artwork, no doubt were all carefully researched, well thought out and entirely appropriate. Fluff, background noise, extraneous details is how I view them. In fact, they are seriously unwelcome distractions in this, the unfolding of the greatest mind fuck our vast and twisted imaginations can conjure. Capriciously shifting illumination adds to the drama, rendering the room a curious juxtaposition of light and dark, of quaint propriety and boldly daring indiscretion.
A carafe of now cold coffee sits idly on the marble topped table next to a tray laden with freshly baked scones. An assortment of jams, butter and the traditional clotted cream look equally bored. It has, until now, gone unnoticed. My stomach rumbles of its own accord. Hunger for sustainable energy has replaced my late night hunger of another variety. I shift slightly, wallowing deeper into the luxurious bed linens. It's the type of bed, with its bright-white ultra high thread count sheets, which greets weary business men with fat expense accounts at the end of a long day's journey. It's the bed I never want to leave despite that its overly formal overtones do not lend itself well to the facts at hand.
From the moment my lover led me into the well appointed room, laid me back against the tufted cream bedspread, and pressed my body deep into the crush of pale velvet throw pillows, it didn't strike me as the sort of bed to which a cosmopolitan and fashionably modern male escorts his clandestine lover for an impromptu, undercover and hopefully uninterrupted week of mind bogglingly self-indulgent mutual gratification. Perhaps it's simply my personal brand of perversion, but the questioning glint of the elderly innkeeper's rather naive gaze as she visually inspected our recently bared ring fingers while we boldly signed the register with our own names, names that do not match, and slid the book back to her, further whet my already gnawing appetite for my lover.
I wonder to myself how many outwardly respectable, uptight ladies have had a proper fucking, as I have, on this very bed. Entirely too few, I decide, as images of neatly manicured and pink blush polished nails befitting long slender fingers, attached to equally dainty wrists tightly gripping the neatly pressed bed sheets cross my field of vision. A perfectly painted rose cream mouth opens into a faux-virginal, shocked and round O as the first waves of orgasm wrack the delicate frame of the woman I can't see except for in my mind. She is nameless, faceless and entirely forgettable as her lover, not mine, fans the flames of burning desire already licking around the edges of her sanity. Over and over she climaxes, head thrashing back and forth, hips bucking wildly, those hands clawing deep red lines down that lover's back, and screaming out his name in abandon as disinterest settles over me and she slips from my consciousness.
Perhaps I should be ashamed for indulging myself in this hedonistic fashion, perhaps not. I'll decide at some point, I'm sure. My mind is clear, for once free of its usual burdensome worries, alive in that hyper state of awareness, at peace for a time with the power I wield. My limbs feel weighted, sated, and like the rest of me, a little bit sore. I smile to myself, relieving the feel of my lover's caress, the warmth of his fingertips stroking that one spot in the small of my back. Overall, it's a good ache, the kind that reminds me, even days after, of the moment, the passion, the secrets we share. As I lean into the lavender scented pillows, yawn and languidly stretch away that last lingering thought of hibernation, I'm allowed the freedom of a little discreet retrospection.
