Alchemy 2

Go ahead.

What?

Here. She hooks his fingers in the inner band of her underwear. Please. He feels as if the moment redeems all the days he was unwanted--by any woman, or any world for that matter, so he doesn't move the finger. Besides, the hand is paralyzed by a drugged surge of wine and joy and grief. Instead he caresses the full of her back, admiring its contours in the flickering candlelight. He laughs internally how he is blinded by his tears but guided by his hands, and she doesn't look back because she too is absorbed in a world she can never express to him, but is something parallel.

He loves her backbone, the way she hunches because she's ashamed of how tall she is, how her long brown hair and collarbone are aligned above the purple satin. He loves the cellulose she has tried to hide like shameful scars (they're the mark of a woman). But tonight she lets him look at all of her, tonight she is bathed by his gaze. Her body is perfect though it doesn't change (and perfection lies in change). He loves the birthmark on her inner thigh that's the shape of Crimea. He traces his finger around the birthmark almost every night they've gone to bed together, so he's traced it for 1460 days of their time together, although he doesn't calculate this until they have left each other. He will think, fourteen hundred days is too short. He will feel the number in his throat like a red coal.

The plains of skin between her back and her ass are kissed at various spots. She arches her bum, tickled and aroused by his warm breath. She is wet enough to be penetrated then and there, and she says something to that effect, but he can't say anything because his throat is thickened. She is hot like a man and he is cooler as a woman. His cock is at its hardest, every cell filled to its complete potential, fat with last lust. He wants to stave off the inevitable, but he wants to savor what was never his, though he says she's his, and she says he's hers. These are good lies they tell each other.

He resigns to these thoughts as he rolls the royal blue panties from her hip, down the slope of her, and down her ankles where she sensually kicks out of the cotton shackles and spreads for him, knowing where his mouth will go. He puts the inside crotch of the panties to his nose and inhales the precious, spicy fragrance of pussy. He wears the panties like a glove and with the other hand cups her pubis from behind and rubs it fully as she grinds immediately, almost losing her balance. He pushes her back in place with two hands on that pillowy bum. They laugh (the first time they've met eyes in the last four minutes). He flicks his tongue on her labia, which are thick with syrup. He sucks at the nectar, which was glistening the moment she put on her lingerie an hour and a half ago. Off guard, she lets out a guttural moan, pleased he's finally met her in the garden. Shhh! he commands. In the other room her snoring roommate Margie, sleeping over because she will take her friend (the woman the man is licking at the moment) to the train station tomorrow. (The lovers decided years ago that transportation hubs are for pick-up only, so tonight is their goodbye.)

She remembers how he always called it nectar. She called it pussy juice. She was the crass one, never as delicate as her man. Fucked like a man and came like a man. Came first, and without regrets. Fell asleep before him, woke before him. Never ate together. Now she is practically sitting on his face, but before she can grind any longer, he stands up, his hard member brushing accidentally against her thigh and marking her with a dab of precum paint, and he guides her to the floor so that she is kneeling on all fours. She assumes he will fuck her like a dog and cum on her back and maybe her hair if she is lucky, but her simple man-mind is again fooled as he lifts her legs like a wheelbarrow and then higher so that she is in a hand stand. He hugs her waste as she hangs upside down, and he muffdives, shoving his hungry face into her sopping wet cunt. She can't stand it. Raises her higher so he can suck her honey. She is best positioned to suck him, doing push-ups off his sculpted quadriceps. Margie has awakened to this, somewhat instinctively aroused by the commotion, tries to masturbate but decides to return to a dream in which she will also lose herself.

Meanwhile, the two lovers are a strange insect devouring itself from head to toe. Orobus, they both think, because they both studied alchemy in their early days of courtship (and they called it courtship). She never finished painting the tarot deck she promised him their first year, he never finished interpreting her cards, but she painted Orobus, the universe snake that eats itself.

She is maddened by the gorgeous vantage point she slobbers over. She takes him in far, and her slight inebriation allows her to relax any possible gag, so that only a few inches of him have not been consumed. She thinks, if she can take him in fully she will be able to see through the end of the universe and therefore will see herself, from behind. As for him, he believes he has learned to breathe in the precious folds of her lips, as if he were a bee lost in a bucket orchid. He doesn't know how long his eyes have been shut.

He slowly lowers her to the ground and enters her from behind, letting his balls slap like a bell against her clit, knocking at the door. Margie has begun to masturbate to the desperate slap of flesh. Her own loneliness drives her to vigorously rub her clit as if her hand were possessed and shivering over a Ouiji board. She kneeds and gropes a fleshy tit in one hand and moans quietly until she quivers and cums. In her next dream, she will remember names she thought she had forgotten.

The lovers are about to enter missionary, the final stop before they kiss each other goodnight and cry in each others' arms. Give me rugburn, she demands, her eyes penetrating his skull. He takes both her thighs in his firm hands and nods to her to put him inside her. It slips in easily but the fucking becomes animal: no separation between pleasure and pain. Her ass literally drags on the short-haired, gray carpet, her legs flailing in the air. They are on the back of a giant tortoise universe, and they are falling off.

He takes hold of one leg and voraciously sucks her toes while pumping twice as hard. He cries out her name--Jasmine--quietly in her ear, and they both listen to it as they cum simultaneously, his essence emitted deep within her womb, sputtering a steady hot stream as she milks him with convulsive, blackout PC-contractions. They both listened--to the steady rhythms of Margie's gentle snoring and the name he just spoke, which sounded foreign to them both, though they knew it was hers.