Body & In

A Meditation

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Seven hours amid the silence of pages. Between the great rows of words bound at the back, stacked full to the sky with expressions of humanly struggle and labor, testaments to the tortures of transitioning from life to word - she sits at a table strewn with scrawlings and papers and scraps and open books and the heat and agonies of turning words under hand, of trying vainly to use ink to transcribe the matter of being itself and instead only daubing it over the tips of fingers and palms of the hands.

She sits there, in the struggling silence, gasping for air, heat rising over her suffocated body. Her eyes are locked open to the open pages below. A bead of sweat slides down her cheek and slips from her jaw onto a discarded shred of paper. Her body shivers. That - that which she tries to scratch out on the surfaces of paper, that which rattles her form and begs for release - trembles through her frame.

The books, so erudite, so precise, so structured, sometimes brilliant, open her wide and let in all the promise of her own words. But placing them upon paper herself, she feels her mind wrapped tight around the effort and adding a weight to the labor. Such is it that every word, every letter, every scratch of the pen is won with an agony of effort. How easy it would be to simply live it! No more of this writing, of this false shadow of reality strewn over the face of bleached sheets - only living it and showing all the world its being by the act of its being. But there over the pages she remains, shivering and scratching out letters.

She does not sit alone at the table. A man near her youthful age bends deeply over his own strewn papers and open books with hands wrapped tight in locks of tawny hair. She has looked at him and sees no trace of the wild agony filling her own body. But this is how it always seems. It is hardest to see that struggle on the face of the neighbor, even when you know well the signs of that struggle. She might hear a sigh, see a pained stare, observe a bead of sweat down his cheek; but still she cannot see the agony etched upon his form as she feels it etched upon her own. She does think it is there. And she has seen him look at her. Perhaps he wonders just the same thing.

But she is wrapped in the throes of her labor. Her fingers are daubed with ink. A lock of dark hair falls over her cheek. She raises a hand and brushes the hair from her face. She leaves a streak of ink across her cheek. She does not notice, wrapped tight, eyes fixed, hand trembling, breast rising and falling.

The man sees. In that thin streak against her cheek, he sees in her the same trembling agony he sits with between the silent books. A burning torrent rushes to his breath, filling his body. The hair stands up on his neck. He lays his teeth against his lip, forgetting his eyes upon her.

She feels them upon her cheek. She looks up and sees him watching her. He starts, returning his eyes to his paper and shifting his body away from her, a gesture of apology and reconciliation. She pays no mind, watching instead the way he bites his lip and trembles.

The roiling waves rise in her breast, those great torrents tamed in her bosom as she has labored stroke by stroke to put them to paper - now untamed, unbridled, a flood of churning fire in her body. Confronted now by the promise of living itself, not of the endless labor of transcribing living into two-dimensioned word, but the boundless expression of the moment of being, the fury of being, the heat and fire of being, her exhausted mind can resist not a moment of the rising fixation upon this reality before her: the experience of sharing with another, of together being. It is a fleeting fire. Writing, a frigid stone. There is an aching desire in the former, a lingering ache in the latter. She feels heat rise to her cheeks as she watches him.

He feels her eyes upon his lips. He feels the rising ache of the moment shared with her. He feels the lingering ache of his eyes upon the unfeeling page. He watches the paper nonetheless, determine to continue his way. Mostly, it is a consequence of shame, the shame of the discovery of his accidental staring. He fears the shame of unwelcome impropriety and has no wish to give worry to his neighbor.

She has no such worry having seen his eyes upon her and watching him now bite his lip and try not to turn his gaze to the corners of his eyes. She feels their moment shared here in the quiet of the pages. She feels it.

She rises to her feet. He allows himself a glance as she moves. She breathes deeply, the heat of her breath rising in the air. She turns her body along the end of the table, standing over the space between their two seats. He, close to her left, does not raise his eyes. She bends over her papers from the side, turning through them. She breathes deeply, the heat of her breath rising to his cheek.

She flits with one hand through the papers. She reaches with the other to the hem of her long black skirt. She lifts the hem. She wraps a finger around an unseen band of elastic. She draws her crooked finger forth from beneath her skirt and lets the cotton cloth fall around her ankles.

Now she is afraid. Now she refuses to raise her eyes. Now she trembles and shakes over the table. Now she bites her lip. The heat of her breath brushes his cheek.

A flush burns over the bridge of his nose. He saw her without looking. He tastes the soft warmth of her breath on the air. He closes his eyes and shivers. The air grows white hot. His body opens in the heat. He allows himself a glance up at her. He sees the streak of ink upon her cheek. The storm inside him grows calm at the sight, though still a gyre. The sight of the spot, that sign of what they share, brings him to the storm's eye. It swirls about him as he rises from his chair and steps beside her. He feels their shared moment.

She feels the soft warmth of his breath behind her arched back. She tastes the soft warmth of his body beside her. She closes her eyes, a few locks of hair falling over her face. She trembles as the storm, fearful, rises in her.

She feels a touch upon her bent back, low, upon the vertebrae hinted through her tightened white shirt. She lets out a deep sigh as the gyre calms around her, still raging, but now assured. She reaches a hand out to her side, touching his thigh through the pants. They basque in the moment of their communication among the silent stacks, the open papers.

He lets his hand drift down, and she lets hers drift up. He follows the trail of her back, brushing fingers over the cloth draped round. She touches the edges of the taut fabric at the crest of his legs. He slips his hand up her leg, taking the skirt hem up her thigh. She opens her palm to feel the imprint of his taut shaft beneath tight clothing. He reaches between her legs to feel her - and feels her. Beneath his fingers, he feels the aching heat of her soft, delicate phallus.

Her cock trembles at his touch - and terror rips through her. In the depth of their shared moment, the exhaustion of her mind, she had not even considered the danger. Her eyes open wide. She is paralyzed, wrapped tight in the terror of this moment.

He feels her muscles tense. He hesitates a moment - worries that he had gone too far, that she had realized some mistake, that he had hurt her with his incautious touches. But his fears subside and his hand relaxes over the face of her warm flesh. He sees. She fears herself revealed to him. She fears that he touches her with a closed mind. But no, this is a moment between two open minds. He touches her soft flesh with his fingers, touches the warm dew of her sex, rolls its delicate slit beneath his gentle fingers.

She lets out a sound, almost a sob, from her lips. Tears of relief, of joy, of boundless gratitude at the kindred mind with her now, well in her eyes. She closes her eyes against them and leans into his touch. She opens her palm again upon the crest of his legs and feels his hard flesh warm beneath the cloth.

He draws his hand back. Her skirt, lifted by his touch, lies upon her back, showing her smooth, naked ass. He steps behind her. She feels his warmth brush between her legs, touch her bare skin. She leans back, pressing into the warmth, feeling the shape of his hard flesh press against her. He lays his hands upon the curves of her rear. He opens her curves with deep caresses. He lets a thumb brush the tight opening. She bites her lip and presses backward. She bends deeper, her arms outstretched upon the table, her hair falling over the face of the table and over the edge. She sees her bag open upon the floor. A memory strikes her. She reaches a hand into her bag. She lays upon the table a sealed wrapper and a slim, clear bottle. Neither she nor he can contain a smile at the sight.

He reaches out and takes the bottle and wrapper. He unfastens his belt. His clothing falls past his ankles. Leaning back, she presses her body into his bare cock. She cradles his hot, hard flesh against her body, sounding softly when it touches her tender skin. He opens the wrapper with his teeth. He touches the opened circle of latex to the tip of his cock and slides it over its head to the base. She presses close, cradling his shaft upon the small of her back. He upturns the bottle and lets cool, viscous liquid fall over his tight-covered flesh. He sighs at the sensation over his cock. She sighs at the sensation over her bare back. She rolls her hips and savors the silken touch of his flesh between hers. He caresses the silken liquid over her back, her thighs, her tight hole.

He draws back between the cleft of her cheeks, bringing the head of his shaft to the opening. She and he breathe heavily as they stand before the moment, she arched before him, he erect behind her. He presses against her, taking the curves of her hips in hands daubed with silken liquid. His head presses, presses against her flesh. She leans in gently, bracing against his slow push. They hold their breath. Her body holds firm against the rising pressure.

Then, she opens. All at once, she opens around him. His silken cock slides tight into her open body. She cries out, muffling herself through her teeth, then draws heavy, broken breaths. He cries out, muffling himself to a moan, and draws back. His hot flesh opens her wide, deep. Her knees tremble under the intensity of the stretching of tight flesh against taut flesh. He draws back a fraction, letting the silken liquid touch into her. She presses backward. The pressure of her opening and his filling deep sends dizzying ecstasy up her spine and into her closed eyes. He pulls back and then slides in again. He sighs and braces her hips in his hands. She gives a little cry, her body jarring as his flesh opens her wide. He feels her tighten around him as she responds to the sheer sensation rippling through her. He sighs at the silken sensation wrapping him in. He begins a gently growing pulse. She leans in, matching his growing rhythm with her own. They rock together against the table, over the books and papers strewn about.

He opens his eyes and sees the table before them. In a flash, he pulls out from her. She cries out, knees almost buckling at the shock up her spine of her rapid-closed flesh. She feels hands lifting at her thighs. She follows the force of the hands and lifts herself upon the table and onto her knees. His hands spread her knees apart. Breathing hard, she bends forward with hands upon the table and looks back - fire in her eyes. He holds her hips and leans inward again, pressing the tip of his taut cock against her loosed and slick flesh.

She opens for him as we slides back inside if her. A wild groan from her lips now as she closes her eyes and turns her head to front, rolling her hips back into his as he thrusts deep inside her. He shakes the table as his thighs strike hers. The table rocks beneath her, creaking and groaning. Papers crumple beneath her knees. Books fall open upon the floor. Ink undried by the heat and sweat of their bodies stains her knees and palms, his bare thighs. They groan and pant and sigh and revel in the tight rapture of their shared bodies, the growing tide of swirling pleasure.

He adjusts himself by chance. Stars bursts into her eyes. She opens them, her mouth agape, filled suddenly with a furious, unbearable shock growing with each thrust into her body. She cries out with each, unable to cope with the vicious, rising pulse inside her. It shears her vision, shakes her body, trembles her ink-stained knees as his flesh reaches deep inside her tight body. In a roaring wave, it suddenly breaks over her. It rips into her like a great jagged knife, but where it touches there are swirling waves of ecstasy. She all but collapses as rending spasms send strings of white from her body down onto the table. Black ink mixes with the pearly strands upon the pages below.

He gasps, sighs, groans at the sight of her orgasm beneath him, her folded arms, her clenched fingers and toes, her sounding lips. He feels her tighten in spasms around him. His head spins. He redoubles his momentum, sounding hard against her bare body. They shine with sweat and silken liquid. She cries out in the throws of ecstasy, in the heightened sensations from her climaxing body.

He feels the current tip inside him and draws out his quivering shaft. She shudders wildly as her asshole closes around his fleeing cock. Her knees collapse from under her and she lays trembling upon the table. He tears the latex from his flesh and cries out as long ropes of white spring from his slit and draw long shapes upon her curved cheeks, her arching back, and the pages and ink strewn over the open table below.

He falls forward, hands upon the pearl-and-black-marked pages on the table. He collapses into the chair at its side. She lies among the strewn pages and ink intermixed with trails of pearl, still shivering at the lasting sensation from her nerves, her muscles, her tender inner body. He lays his folded arms among the papers of the table, gasping for breath. They breathe together the rich, warm air. They lay among the pages marked white and black, body and ink.