Sketches: 1. Chinatown
Tucked tight in the corner, shadowed in oak, seconds ticked over as his fingers traced my neck. The skin and bones; the nerves and veins. My flesh malleable, caught in the pinch of his hunger. He found the point, below my jaw, beneath my ear. Imprinted the mark of his finger in the hollow. My lips parted around gasps, and his tongue met my whimper. Prized open, weak in his palm, I accepted his kiss and returned it, until the urgency of his hand forced cries from my throat.
I pleaded, asked, didn’t want him to let go, but called his name. He claimed my mouth; bit and tasted. Extracted what he wanted as my arms hung limp at my sides, my hands folded open, half heard.
Kissed again, and then released me against the warmth of his chest.
Lids lowered, his stubble grazing my brow; the heaving of his chest, each breath, my last remembered thought.
Sketches: 2. Soho
The man in the white scarf watched us. I could see it in your smile; but what surprised me was the glint. I mistook it, for a moment, as incredulity. But as you clasped my hand, and drew me in, you looked over my shoulder, all mischief, and kissed me like you owned me. And it was pride. To be sitting with me, in such proximity. To press your lips over my mouth was to claim my flesh.
His eyebrows rose above his shielding paper until even I, without lenses, could see your audience; and I blushed.
Sketches: 3. Southbank
It was a great kindness; a personal pleasure that he plucked from her smile. They strode across the spine of the city, marveled at the waves. Stopped. And went on.
On the bank he led her through the throngs, between the second hand paperbacks, down into the concrete. The ugliness of an historic future encased their coupling and it was the cold cruelty of his hand on her neck that forced the adoration from her lips.
There was a sneer about the corners of his grin and arousal in the way he lifted her face to show her the lines of grey, slicing the blue sky; fighting their brothers; muscling in on Summer.
This was not a place for romance; no soft words, nor tender touch; the blackened walls spoke violence and brutality as he kissed the lips that gasped for air, and suggested, with the slightest shift of his body, that her ‘I love you’s were returned.
So good to see women erotica from you again. I’ve missed it. In fact, I was going to re-mark my notification email as unread and save these delights for later. But my finger slipped….
Southbank. They were all delicious in their own way, but the last line of Southbank, for me, stitched the whole thing together and added an extra layer. And the picture nailed it. Not knowing London all that well, the picture rooted it perfectly in place for me.
Thank you so much lovely. It was nice to write something between the lines of fiction and non-fiction. And the picture was taken shortly after the events of that third sketch…
P.s. “women erotica”?! Apologies. My phone is clearly posessed. >_<
Exquisite writing that has the power to pull me back for a 2nd, 3rd & 4th read & so on, reading something slightly different into them each time. I love your rich word tapestry. I love the feeling of~being real? or fantasy? And I don’t even want to know. Wonderful.
What a wonderful comment; thank you so much.