Will There Be Enough

The sweet, silvery tinkle of your voice is insistent in my ear. Slowly, but steadily I am pulled from sleep to wakefulness, to a sitting position to look at you better.

You are a vision.

Framed by the expansive bay window, your lithe form is limned by the silver luminescence as day conquers night. Your height, your hair flowing in unruly strands on your shoulders and below, all seem the same as they were twenty-seven years ago.

Your sapphire eyes though, now betray a knowledge you did not then have. Nor does your stance have the shy demureness of your youth. Your powder pink peignoir is held bunched up above your navel by your left hand. Your right seeks a purchase on my shoulder. Your legs are apart, feet braced. Your soft whisper, slightly somnolent and husky, sears a flame through my mind . . .

“When did you get up?” I ask, as the night past flits across my eyelids in a flash.

“She’s throwing a tantrum again.”

Each word of yours stamps itself on my brain. A cascade of memories hurtles almost physically through my spine.

“She cries for your kisses . . .”

The sight, as has always been, is irresistible. Twenty-seven years and four caesareans that brought our children into this world haven’t taken anything from you. Neither have your surgeries for mastitis as you suckled our third one. The fading scars, though, have become milestones. Kiss stops. Many have been the moments of bliss when I have lingered upon them with lips and tongue.

No lingering for me now though. Your need oozes, and the musk of you pulls me to your cleft peach like a powerful magnet.

In one simple movement, both my hands find, clasp the firm globes of your buttocks, my mouth settles wide and hungry on your bedewed cunt.

I can feel the shockwave of sensation that rips through you as my hands and lips find their marks. It spurs my ardour. My lips close on your nether ones, my mouth sucks, my tongue teases.

I feel pulsings, tremors. I feel an insistence, a pushing of your pelvis against my mouth. My hands grip your derriere in a vice. My tongue becomes aggressive, parrying turns to thrusts. I find the heated entrance to your innards and breach it, entering, just as I had a few hours ago.

Our twenty-seventh anniversary is so like our first one, our second and third one, our subsequent ones, yet each so unlike any other.

The love, the desire, the passion, it is all there. Mellowed perhaps – but mellowed like an exceptional vintage. And yes. We are more knowing now, more aware of what, how, where the sparks fly most furious.

My tongue vies with your pelvis to set a rhythm of its own choice. I win, as I often have. Your undulations begin to follow the movement of my tongue. Your breath shortens, becomes heavier. It’s a divine symphony to my ears.

My fingers on your derriere tense, become adventurous. The cleavage between your buttocks is now a familiar trek for them.

You gasp as a finger reaches the throbbing heat of your anus. You know, soon it will be in, thrusting, in time with my tongue in the front of you.

I too know that soon you’ll be going berserk. You will break away from the spell my lips and mouth and tongue and fingers have cast upon you. Your pulsings will set a beat all their own. Your pelvis will crush itself against my face, your rectum will wildly clench at my finger inside it.

And then, that hot fountaining squirt of your nectar.

Your release from need gives rise to one in me. As the grip of your right hand on my shoulder relaxes, your left lets go of your peignoir. Your fingers gently comb through my hair as you bend forward to kiss me. Once again you will marvel at the mingled taste of my saliva and your own nectar.

My hands guide you down, beside me on the bed, as they have done thousands of times. You are aglow with the flush of release, a sight for sore eyes. You are a sight for any eyes, sore or unsore, any time.

One kiss follows another, and yet another. It is as if we are kissing for the first time. Hungry. Thirsty. Insatiable. Lips meld, mouths merge, tongues entwine. Our eyes, now shut, now open, burn at the heat of each other.

It is as if this hiatus of sleep never was. As if the night has stood still. As if we have just come back from the theater after the dinner. As if . . .

Twenty seven years ago. You – and me. The room was not the same, nor was our life. Our need for each other, though, was as naked and rampaging as it is today.

The wedding had been private. Just a few close relations and friends. The old padre at the Holy Trinity Church had been shocked at our nuptial kiss after we had exchanged vows and rings. Little did he know how much we had had fought ourselves, to bring ourselves virgins to the nuptial bed.

I, at twenty three seemed older than my years. You belied your nineteen. And what a match we were and have been. Like some gravitational force binding us, pulling us to, and into each other. The padre, of course had no idea of the resistance we had put up against temptations.

Growing up together, living in the same neighbourhood, going to the same school, we were accustomed to the presence of each other. The presence, yes. The need for each other, that had grown upon us unawares, till it exploded one day.

Our first date, the first for either of us, had ended with a “Will you?” and “Yes. I will.”

The year between that and our wedding had been a year of longing, of unappeased passion, of restraint, though we met almost every day. And each day seemed to add fuel to the fires that raged in our souls, to the love that impelled each of us into the arms of the other.

It had also been a year of revelations. A year of promise, and yes, also, somewhat a year of impatience. A year of shared stolen moments, shared intimacies too. And the wait, it had been worth every minute. On these anniversaries, everything flashes back with a vividness that defies description.

The day had been a beautiful, sunny one. But as the evening approached so did the clouds and the night had been stormy. Outside of the small room in our rented bed sitter an elemental storm had raged. Inside, raged a storm of thunderous passion. It was as if the heavens were in communion with us. The fury of the storm outside kept time to the frenzy of our desire.

There were no preliminaries. We had been primed by the wait since the reception on the church grounds, and the drive from our childhood houses into the town had stoked the fires further.

No sooner had the door closed behind us that we were entwined, immersed in a kiss that seemed endless. But end it did, because our bodies clamoured for much more than just a kiss.

I was no stranger to your body, you to mine. We had not known each other as the Book speaks of knowing, but we had browsed. Many had been the times when we had silently cursed ourselves for our restraint. But we had held the line we had drawn.

The crossing of that line had been notated by a deafening drum roll of thunder. The after shocks live in your body and mine till this moment.

Stolen moments of togetherness are one thing. Sleeping together entwined, and waking up to the heat of each other is something quite else. Sleep we did that night too, only to awake again and again. To explore, to marvel, to capture, to conquer.

Many were the times your triad of orifices welcomed me. My fingers, hands, tongue, all metamorphosed into as many phalluses. As they do even today – twenty seven years later.You became one all enveloping, all consuming cunt. As you do even today.

Will there ever be enough of us for each other?