The escalating sounds punctuated the night with fervor, as if to negate all silences that ever were, as if to deny that loneliness could ever happen again. The piston pounding of twin hearts beat relentlessly in time with each other, redefining the sound of love with each beat; denying that hate or anger or sorrow could find purchase within their flesh. Flesh flushed from rosy to red to burning, a flame that scalded the darkness and held it at bay; a hound called to heel by some greater master. And it obeyed, though reluctantly. Shadows of that reluctance danced over features, between spaces and through open orifices greedily, shouting it's defiance and pride until the end. Not that it was noticed.
Limbs became hopelessly entwined in those moments, a Celtic Knot of hope. They extended their ambitions, their visions and their compassion to each other in the form of fingers and hands and arms and legs and so much more, remembering in their most sacred act the unity from before body, before time and before man's collective consciousness. They were transcending. Hair was splayed, tangled, devoured by it's counterpart becoming rapidly, irretrievably, immersed in the other though not gripping; the hair need not embrace as the flesh did, the mere contact, the slide of silk against silk, was enough to sate it's hunger. Neither was that noticed.
Lips moved against each other in a celebration of freedom, a cacophony of release from the bondage of Self and into the amorphous expanse of Other. The taste of sweet and sour dancing with peaches and apples flooded tongues that urged themselves and their owners onward toward deeper depths of entanglement. Toward higher spires of excitement and trust. Those self-same tongues that so eagerly leapt from their connection to savor the velvet salt of flesh, to roll across valley and over hill as if exploring for the most infant flaw. Knowing that none exists. Not on their partner, not on this night; this perfect night. Almost in reverence, in homage to the full ivory moon above, they taste each other, fingers, lips, stomachs and everything else to show that sacred, ever-worshiped, watcher in the belly of the heavens that they are the result of It's love, of It's devotion to them. But they aren't really trying to please it. That would just be a happy side effect of what they do.
Strong fingers, maybe his, search her body with skill. The calluses do not hurt her as he is beyond gentle - he is Loving and his every action mirrors this inner warmth; the way he slips his forefinger and thumb around the pert flesh of her nipples and squeezes, the way he gently twists, the way his fingers move from that sacred place to her mouth and trace the lips that have tasted him and kissed him and Loved him genuinely. Genuinely, he touches her with his hands as his tongue delights, mouth constricts gradually and throat swallows. Because he Loves her, because he Loves doing for her, To her. And, just perhaps, because he is excited by the thought that he can please her with more than his lust.
