I nearly didn't post this. I don't like it much and found it pedestrian upon rereading but I've been thinking about the concept and besides Boo asked so nicely for me to spice it up a bit and I'm nothing if not obliging. So.......
A sound she couldn't identify awoke her from a sleep she didn't remember falling into. At least she thought it was a sound, it was a disturbance and while so very subtle it was in fact enough to wake her and make her wonder if it came from within or without.
There it was again.
Convinced now that it was indeed external, from somewhere outside her. Or nearly convinced. It was a moving sound, more of a rustle or a soft whoosh than anything as abrupt or sharp as an audible click, thump, bang or clang. Or knock. Like the sound gauzy drapes almost makes in a soft breeze. One of those sounds you can't hear without seeing. Or in this case, without feeling. She certainly didn't see the source so maybe it wasn't really there, the sound anyway, but something was.
Before she drifted off to sleep she remembered towelling nearly dry, remembered the satiny robe clinging to her dampness, remembered wrapping another smaller towel around patted curls and waves of wet hair. Now it was drying with tangly tendrils spilling out from under the towel. She apparently hadn't moved in sleep, laying on top of the covers, she never did that but she remembered being so sleepy with limbs and lids too heavy for anything but laying down and letting them close. Further proof was the outline left on the bed when she rose, a faint shroud from where she'd lain, the ghostly damp shape of her. She stood, drew the robe around her, retied the sash and pulled the towel free from her matted mane. The cool draft that slipped into her robe as she gathered it around her gave her a slight shudder and she took a step without a destination in mind. She stood for a moment to orient, then padded down the hall, turned at the stairwell and slid her hand along the smooth wood of the banister while floating down with satin wisps and silent footsteps. She stepped into the entry and felt the coolness of the wood floor under her feet. The knot at the silky sash of her robe unknotted itself and she hugged it to her with hands on crossed arms until she reached to jiggle the knob of the door she knew was locked. The sewn seams inside her lapels fell across the center of either breast and her nipples were achingly hard in an instant. She ignored them. The night shadows from ambient light dappled and diffused through the lightly shaded windows allowed her to see her way around the circle of rooms to end up where she started at the foot of the stairs. She sat on the carpeted landing and again her robe fell open as if invisible fingers were determined to keep it that way. She leaned back on her elbows and stretched her legs out in front of her and watched leafy shadows from the tree in the front yard quake and slow dance down her body. A low peal of rumbling thunder caused the nape of her neck to clench and the shivery shudder ran down her spine. The leaves picked up their dance and the rain breathed the smell of iron into the house. Another clap startled her and she was surprised to find herself sitting there. She looked back over her shoulder at the mirror leaning against the landing wall and sure enough there she was. Awake she thought, awake, she said it out loud to make it so.
Then the loudest thundering booming crack of them all, the loudest she'd ever heard, and it was lit up for her to see with a brilliant lightning flash. Her body jumped, jerked and tightened and a bolt of heat surged up both legs, it opened her, splayed her right there on the stairs and shook her to her core, ripped and rattled her til she was gulping for breath, arching her hips to the surge, to the electric charged bolt, pushing up to it, flinching with spasms, wracked with the intense pleasure of it, shocked and rocked and wanting more even though it was too much, too much, wave after wave after wave. The robe was laying under her, pushed off her shoulders, head thrown back, neck arched, throat stretched, shuddering and shaking, rain now pounding the panes of glass and plopping in puddles on the porch and pavement of the sidewalk. Heavy breathing caught in her throat, her thighs taut and tense and still open, her mind reeling along with her body, my god she mouthed just as the door flew open violently from some rainy howling gust. She leaped to her feet on unsteady legs, circled the knob with shaky fingers and used her shoulder to push it against the elements that had forced it open. Leaning against it, thinking, remembering, it was locked, I know, it was locked, figuring, but not all the way shut, that had to be it. Leaning hard, pushing, a slam of her hip and shoulder to make sure, the blowing rushing rain dripping off her nose and chin, chilling her body. Propping herself against the door on still wobbly legs, drops becoming rolling rivulets down the front of her to meet the slick wetness between her thighs from somewhere darker still. Feeling some shame now at the loss of control, of self, lost to something, then another shivering aftershock shoving the shame aside, stepping with care on the wet floor, stooping to grasp the satiny pile in her fingers, feeling the turbulence from outside whirl about and lift her toward and up the stairs in an airy ascent.
Gliding in the dark toward her bedroom, retracing her steps but this time pulling the covers back and for the second time that night laying damp upon the bed but this time shrugging the robe to the floor and crawling beneath soft dry linens drawn to her chin. Thunder more a distant rumble now and the lightning more muted than the bright flashes that had colored everything the hue of electric bluish white you see from the flash of a strobe or an old movie reel.
Later, in that hour that's not yet ready to be early, she lifted her legs dreamlike, the tight sheets resisting and holding her with her feet flat and knees parted, arms at her side, palms turned up and fingers curled as if in offering. And this time it began slowly with small lapping waves of pleasure, the slow warmth of adding hot water to a cooling bath.
The warmth rose both on her legs and in temperature forcing her knees farther apart when it finger licked its way to the middle of her thighs. She licked her dry lips and a smile that was something other than soft bared her teeth and for god knows what reason she likened this new feeling to the spreading warmth of wetting the bed too long after she was a little girl. She flushed with shame, liked it, and decided to wear it for awhile. Her mind wandered to when she would lay in bed and wet herself in a different way. She kept her arms and hands to her side and let the sensation take her over, let it possess her. She arched her hips to meet the imagined thrusts and felt the pressure of fingertips on the inside of her knees and without hesitation opened to the touch. The sheet was either kicked or pulled to her feet and she shook them free of the entanglement. Her hands turned, still at her side and she wrinkled and clutched the sheets tightly in her fingers, holding on.
She felt the dank humid air surround her, so heavy she could feel it's weight. She felt it settle upon her and at first slowly, then with growing impatience, shook her head from side to side on the pillow. The bed creaked with the added pressure and her arms slid outwards and once again gripped the sheets into wrinkles she could hold fast to. Her eyes were wide now and whatever it was that was outside of her was about to come in. Outside the storm whipped against the windows again, a pelting of windblown rain, more wet. She wanted to throw the window open and soak herself but she was pinned to the bed. She dove down deep into herself to that place with dark dirty corners that caked her knees with streaky grime, the place with a keyhole in the door, a real keyhole and the long skinny key that rattled in the lock. The place with the bare light bulb in the ceiling with the string attached that clicked when pulled and cast shadows except in the farthest corner where no light could get to. She went down there, creaky wooden steps to get there, the soles of her feet black with the years of the dirt settling, setting on stairs rarely used. She raised her hips up into that darkness and turned her head toward that blackest corner, felt the hand pulling her away from the center, pulling her away from the shadows, warmth running down both legs now, rubbing them together to feel the them slip slide, then back apart. Palms gritty dirty from the peeling chipped painted block walls
It hit her like a fist, bone jarring and with no warning, pounding at her. The storm smashing so hard, the glass actually creaking with the force of it. Lifting her hips to meet it, hands scratching across the sheets slipping under her, grabbing, fingers digging hard hurting, salting an open wound, sweat pouring, nails raking and then her hands held up over her head clutched hard, wrists held together tight.
She cried out at the jolting current coursing through her. She thrashed wildly, made low keening noises in her throat, then fell back flat, spent. She lay that way with her chest rising and falling, quick with breath at first, then slowing. Her arms and legs rested heavy on the bed, unmoving.
She slept, she didn't dream.
Later with first light still a pale gray, she awoke from another sleep she didn't remember falling into, walked gingerly to the shower and leaned her forehead against the cool tile with hands flat against the wall and winced as the water streamed against the thumb print bruises on her thighs, washing the sticky streaks down her legs to meet the dark dirt from her feet swirling down the drain.
Last couple of days I've been throwin' fuel on the fire over at Jayne's cause I really like fire and to see things burning. Topic has been the sexualization of women and harassment, stuff like that. Certainly incendiary subject matter.
Jayne says......."sometimes I get the equally uninvited comment: "Smile, honey!" If it's an elder gentleman, I let it slide. But for younger ones, I sometimes tell them my mother just died, and they'd be upset too, and they should mind their own business. Like I said, rage, right under this placid surface . . ."
and so I commented........Because I'm less virile? Less of a threat? Not capable of a strong sexual response? You sayin' I can get away with more just because of my age? How come if an old man calls a young woman honey it's something different? Seems discriminatory to me, ageism, to no longer be seen as a sexual being, just some harmless old coot. Now Jayne, this isn't something I would expect from such a smart, pretty little thing like yourself. Holy hell, I bet I'm not far from being called "a cute little old man".
So I've paused for sexual introspection and a brief dialog with my conscience. I'm most likely deceiving myself but it won't be the first time.
msc = my sexual conscienceml = my libido
msc - you think you're sexually addicted?
ml - most likely
msc - you have it under control?
ml - for the most part I do. I don't want it completely under control
msc - you think it's harmful to you
ml - perhaps, at times
msc - how so?
ml - maybe it consumes time that would be otherwise better spent
msc - think it's harmful to others?
ml - not like it used to be
msc - you mean your history of infidelity?
ml - there was that
msc - ironic, you being better about that now when it doesn't matter as much
ml - yeah, ironic
msc - you think of yourself as perverted?
ml - no
msc - fetish laden?
ml - there's stuff I like, lots of it, but no, unless you count the foot thing
msc - no BDSM, D/s bent?
ml - not in a ritualistic sense, I don't do scripts
msc - oh give it a try, don't fit a model?
ml - no, certainly more dominant than submissive
msc - quietly, gently dominant? don't see that in the book
ml - I never looked it up
msc - got that watching and being watched thing too
ml - couple of my favorites, yep
msc - your addiction worrisome to you?
ml - not so much anymore
msc - and why is that?
ml - because I make a conscious effort not to exploit or harass or to cause discomfort
msc - is that successful
ml - for the most part I think, I'm not perfect
msc - but most women here would feel you are sexually attentive to them?
ml - yes
msc - excessively so? you think that's a bad thing?
ml - no, not excessive, I have control. I don't know if it's bad or not, depends on how it's received I suppose.
msc - so you have rules for yourself?
ml - sure
msc - let's have em
ml - most important one, don't direct attention where it isn't wanted
msc - you do ok with that one?
ml - I think so, I've never been one for aggressive pursuit
msc - lessens the likelihood of rejection
ml - that it does
msc - your sexual interests waning with age?
ml - no, it's never been more intense
msc - well, first step is admitting you have a problem
ml - you say problem, I say keep bringin' it
msc - you're hopeless
ml - I know, ain't it grand?
msc - think this will cause others to wonder if they suffer a similar malady?
ml - you say malady, I say blessing, and god I hope so
msc - wouldn't change it, huh?
ml - no, plus it's the weekend