A sex scene experiment.
It is when you’ve kissed the spirits too much that the gloves and other vestments come off…
He eyed me as he put his bottle down. Those hands of his, the knuckles firm and fingers curled until one soft finger slowly limps in my direction. Beckoning, beckoning, commanding, demanding, “come here” those distilled whiskey lips mouth to me. I slowly set my flute upon a nearby table and meander left and right in my seductive serpentine until that flaccid finger is now hard against my chest. The heat emanating from the nail bed to the tip flows through my cottons, through my fleeces, and sinks deep into my skin. His palms begin to pry as his eyes and mouth begin to search for my secrets kept within. He’s picked up on my scent, his nose juts closer to the nape of my neck as his eyes close to visualize all the wonders and woes of his newfound prey. His digging digit drags down a treasure trail then slowly ascends to where he smelled my scent. A tender hand takes my cheek as his accusing lips soaked in spirit graze my nervous quivering peak. From his depths I feel his breath soon followed by a loud and stinging slap, to which I thrust the uppercut and strike where my trail ends and his begins. Those fingers which I’ve kept in mind now ball into a fist as he goes for my sweet cheek, but swings to miss and we’re locked arm in arm, leg in leg, kiss in kiss. Those gentle hands eagerly sweep my sides as they find his hairy trail and reach the z that marks the spot, the key, the holy grail from which I long to drink. The battle’s on his mind and he knows that what his bare fists cannot attain can be taken with his sword. I ready mine as we commence the fight of steel on steel, skin on skin, limb on limb. His tongue darts with skill as well, and mine cannot sustain his blows and flails, his parries and jabs. His poisonous lips utter a question to which I find myself unable to resist. Now our shields and armor at our feet, the battle’s taken on a raw new pace. He throws me down and climbs up over me. His sword held steady, he arouses my teasing parry and takes the first stab, and stabs, and stabs in a motion that our hips move to in rapturous rhythm. All the while his tainted breath leaves clouds and notes of lust, anger, and passion. Before long the fight is done, the war is won. I lay beside my comrade as the subdued partner, energy and all strength spent with no words left to mutter. No bloodstains are drawn upon the flannel sheets, but the blanket battlefield is marked with inks of a different shade. Before those brown eyes flicker with tired ease, his gentle hand caresses my cheek as the fires die down giving way to recovering sleep.