The Ghost of a Iss

© Original_Cinnamon 2005

We have had a good evening. There has been good wine, good food and conversation that lapped about the boundaries of our lives; my friends know me better than to push for details. They have been kind this evening and, as I wave them farewell from the door, I thank them.

They haven't mentioned you, though your picture still sits on the mantel. As I start to clear glasses and plates, remove the empty bottles, I'm almost glad your presence wasn't a part of the evening - it's as if it proves something, proves my new independence, my strength. It's a silly notion, soon gone. I remember, as I stack the dishwasher, how you'd wave a dismissive hand at the washing up, teetering in crusted piles in the sink. You'd say we should leave it until the morning.

'Who knows?' you'd say. 'We might be dead tomorrow.'

I miss you. Even more when I stand, and my back clicks. I miss your gentle touch, your massages, your sympathy.

I don't want to turn out the light. The candles are blown out, the table cleared, the room returned to normal. I say goodnight to you.

*

This is my bedroom. My room - you were never here; never in this flat. The colours are mine, soft citrus and pastels. The carpet is thick, the bedclothes satin and impractical. You'd hate the tactile throws, the girly touches of décor, the amber lamp I brought back from Krakow (my first holiday alone).

Reaching behind me, I unzip my dress. It's a thick, heavy fabric; holds in what I've let slip a little since you. I don't worry so much now about what I wear - no more black tie functions, no more skimpy Little Black Dresses to show off my arms and the rounded prize of my bum, for you to pat while you spoke Japanese to middle-aged businessmen who stared at my breasts.

The dress falls to the ground in a cascade of light blue, thick like frozen water. Warmer than ice, I suppose.

My body is tired. I run my hands over my head; my hot, dry forehead, my new blonde perm (you like me brunette, I know...). I feel the knots in the back of my neck, still long, still strong - I must keep my head up in the City, darling - and trace the points of my shoulders. The straps of my black bra (sensible, no lace) are easily dispensed with; I pop the clasp and remove its constraint.

My breasts aren't as firm as they once were. Still high-slung, still creamy and solid, my skin soft, my nipples large and brown - and, oh, if anything, more responsive. Just the brush of the air makes them hard. I toss my bra onto the chair, run my hands down my décolletage, press my palms against my hard nipples.

It's a small friction, but it runs throughout my body. I squeeze my tits, like you might have done, but I miss the heat and the weight of your body behind me, your cock pressing against my buttocks as you kiss my neck. I miss your arms.

I sigh a little as my hands slide down to my tights, my underwear. My stomach, more rounded than you'd remember it, moves under my fingers like a lazy tabby, needing, purring.

I strip the tights from my legs, rubbing the muscles that high heels cause such agony. You loved my legs - long and strong, not those of a girl. I won't pretend I don't have the occasional varicose vein, the odd stretch mark. It's my body, and I've had fun with it.

I sit on the wide of the bed, the velvet throw crushed against my thighs, and wiggle my toes. Pink is a good colour for me.

Off with the panties, I slip quickly into bed and watch the room in the orange glow from the amber lamp. It is too quiet. I snuggle under the covers, pulling them close about me. I don't want to turn off the light.

Oh, God, I don't want to be here in the dark without you.

I close my eyes, squeezed shut. My body is cold, but my hands feel hot. My fingers reach for the cleft of my pleasure, seeking out a means to sleep. I'm not wet.

I stroke my inner thighs, wishing I could feel the roughness of your cheek. Instead, there is just the crispness of my own pubic hair. I clamp my hands between my legs, pushing against their warmth, their weight. At this moment, I am desperate to have something there, to have you there. I'm horny. If I say it out loud, it encompasses more.

Sitting up, I open the bedside cabinet. I was never really one to play with toys, but I suppose needs must... The vibrator is rather small - not something that looks like it could rearrange your kidneys on the first thrust - maybe just under six inches. Subtle, as these things go, with a soft, tight-fitting sheath that feels like skin. Maybe not a conventional girl's best friend, but worth every penny.

I smear lube over the cock, pumping it in my palm until it feels warm and slick - almost approaching life, if I try to believe it. When I switch it on, it purrs quietly, a gentle hum as it twitches against my skin.

With my eyes closed, I can think of your body, visualise your sex. There was a time I couldn't bear to but, now, the pain is less, stored at the back of my mind while pleasure washes my forebrain; hot, unyielding, growing urgent.

I rub the vibrator around my pussy, spreading the lube and its warming buzz around my lips. A couple of tentative pressures, teasing my hole as you might have done - I want it in me now.

With one hand, I can hold the vibe down on the bed and position myself over it. Slowly, belying the urge to fuck hard, fast and desperate, I impale myself on it and start to ride. Oh, yes - back and forth, feeling the hardness slip deeper, the hum further inside me as my pussy welcomes the toy.

The covers slip from my body - cold air, shadows all through the room. Faster now, pinching and rolling my nipples in my fingers. I feel a small streak of sweat on my back as my muscles work around the vibe, sending its sweet tremors through my flesh. I gasp - I call your name as I come.

It disgusts me that I do so... as I lay back against the pillows, cool on my damp skin, lazily fingering my clit, the vibe static inside me, I know I should leave you to your sleep.

Orgasm. The little death, so poets once called it. The irony isn't lost on me.

*

Sleep comes to me relatively easy after I've come like that - you once said I was the cat that got your cream and slept on a sated belly... I pointed out I sleep on my back, and you laughed at me.

Now, I don't sleep well as a rule. I spend more on eye gels and skin masques than lingerie, and the bed always feels too big. But my body sparks like a warm engine cooling, my muscles are soft, and I pull the covers over me, content to clean up in the morning.

I can hear rain patter outside while cars swoosh by. The curtains block out what little moonlight there is - nothing but shadowy shapes as I close my eyes.

I am not quite asleep when the cold air hits my collarbone. With a grunt, assuming the covers have slipped, I burrow further down the bed - but the chill is insistent. A finger of air traces across my chest, drawing slowly over the contours of my breasts, rising from my supine form.

I shiver to feel them cupped, kneaded lovingly - a fingernail flicks at my nipple. With a sigh, I know I am dreaming at last. As your lips fasten to mine, I know I am awake.

Your skin is soft, smooth, cold - you tongue slides into my mouth with effortless fire. My eyes are closed as we kiss, as you taste and swallow with sensation every small, wet place in my mouth. I couldn't bear to wake and see... what? Nothing? Nothing, or worse. I abandon myself to this ghost of a kiss, and to the pressure of fingers upon my shoulders.

The covers draw back as I lay down again, the bed sags beneath a familiar weight. I hope I will get used to the raw chill of your touch... you used to give me goosebumps, in the early days, but this is ridiculous.

The cold rakes down my body - you are running your hands over me, learning the changes, loving the memories. It's like ice; your freezing touch, the clamminess of the trails it leaves behind. I know it's you - you pause to poke a finger into my navel before continuing your journey.

I moan when the cold hits my pussy. There's a rustle that could be laughter, could be the wind in the trees outside. You've found the evidence of my past playtime, still damp in my cunt and on my thighs.

'Well? What else am I supposed to do without you?'

For all answer, my clit is brushed softly with a single chill. I gasp, tucking my pelvis to shy from the contact. You could make me come like that; so sharp, so cold... so good it hurts.

I can feel the shape, the weight of a hand on my hip and - with the subtlety and grace of an elephant - the distinct presence of your cock against my leg. It's hard, twitching ever so slightly on my thigh as that chill caress begins again in my pussy.

Lightly, gently, until I moan, tossing my head against the pillow like some porno starlet. You hold me in place with that icy hand, with the fear of losing you, of losing this feeling. As I think I can't stand any more, the sensation abates.

'Oh!'

Your cockhead, fast against my pussy, rubbing in tiny circles at my clit and my lips. Not cold... hot, hard (so hard!), lazy.

You loved this, to rub the highest centres of our pleasure together, until we lost ourselves in an intensity of feeling that united our senses, mixed us up in each other - and now, without a condom. I can feel my renewed wetness mix with your precum. I suppose I've nothing to worry about, as far as disease or pregnancy goes, have I?

My breathing is shallow now, ragged. My hips buck as you move away.

'Come back! Don't stop... '

I'm reaching blindly then - tearing a cry from my chest - you're inside me. Long, slow strokes service every inch of my pussy with thorough touches, tender and full of power. You thrust deeper, harder, drawing out each time almost to your full length, then plunging back like a diver to a waterfall, rushing and drowning in the sensation.

Cool kisses pepper my neck, my chin, my breasts, dropped from unseen lips as your cock works me into a panting, visceral desperation. Faster now - fuck! Yes, faster, harder, your cock staying further in me each time, battering against the inner reaches of my pussy. I give a little cry as I feel the crackle of your pubic hair pressed to my clit, your balls flush to my bum, skin slapping as you fuck me ever deeper, working to bring us to the closest union possible.

I don't know if I imagine the pant of breath, the damp sound of my pussy begging for your cock, your load, with the flow of juices that wet the sheets. Sweat beads my body as I claw at the bedclothes - harder, you know you won't hurt me - my thighs pushed up and legs bent to their limit to accommodate you as deep as you can go. I feel you stroke the secret sweet spots inside me (G-spot, A-spot, the whole fucking alphabet!). My legs tremble and my hips start to quake as I feel the orgasm building inside me. Quicker, more and more, your cock pushes me on and on.

Your hot prick still pounds me as my pussy grips at you; I ride the blisters of pleasure one after another, to breaking point, panting and groaning in my bliss I shriek your name, name the act, beg for more. I buck under you, your cock still stroking long thrusts into my hot cunt - you don't stop, and the voluptuous delirium gives way to another intensity. My every nerve is raw, grated and oversensitive as you keep fucking, driving my flesh further with a maddeningly intensity that scalds my senses.

I throw my hips up to you as I come, desperate with uncontrollable desire, orgasm wracking my senses and wrecking my rhythm. Your cock twitches as it rams into me, like a living, caged thing, snarling and greedy. I feel your glans beat against me then - ah! - a final jerk of incredible power and, oh God, I'm drenched in your spunk. One, two great hot spurts deep inside my pussy - you still move, syncopated, we flail against each other in the paroxysms of our climax, united as pleasure starts to subside.

It's all I can do to keep breathing.

It's all I can do to keep breathing when I know that, tomorrow morning, you'll be gone once more.