Keep writing, my dear

Her

Seated in the chair I try to maintain my calmness. Still can’t believe she accepted my invitation! It is a long way from Vancouver to Dubai, and she agreed. All those years of messages exchanged through social media, desires shared of what I want to do to her… she is the only one I have ever trusted with my most unconventional imaginations, my wants. I could have never opened up to anyone else like that without the fear of facing judgment and ridicule. Not even my wife. I didn’t even know this until most recently myself, when she asked me in one of our messages, “why me?” It caught me off guard, I couldn’t answer right away so I pardoned myself: “can I get back to you on this, I want to articulate my answer properly before I blurb something insensitive?” As expected, she was very understanding and I took entire weekend to gather my thoughts. I messaged her on Monday morning, “In answer to your question. You feel like a safe space for me. From day one it has felt to me like our frequencies are aligned. I can't think of a better way to articulate that. You've seen into me in a way that does not often happen, especially with someone you've never been in the physical presence of.” That was my epiphany, I trust her, even though I’ve never met her.

‘Where is she? She landed hours ago, airport is only 20 mins from the hotel.’ I begin to wonder if she’s ok, feeling guilty, I should’ve gone to pick her up myself.. but the risk of being seen by anyone is too great.

I should draw the window drapes, and dim the lights in this room.

Darn, I didn’t even ask if she wanted to have something brought up to drink! Does she drink? And food, she might be hungry after a long flight, I best call the room service..

knock knock - knock knock. Such an iconic knock to my suite door.

I straighten my torso and feel a sudden rush under my skin.

Did she forget to collect her key card from the guest services?

I head towards the door, suddenly stopping to catch a glance of myself in the mirror.

Hair, beard, shirt collar on point..

I exhale once, a heavy sigh, and open the door.

She’s here.

She’s taller than I imagined.

And bigger.

Did she gain weight?

Curvy, I like it.

“Hi” - she says with a slight smile on her face. That face… I imagined that face on mine one too many times.

“Finally” - I reply. “Come on in, how was your flight?”

“Long”. She offers nothing in her one word answer.

She walks into the room confidently, seducing my eyes with every step.

The scent of her perfume lingering in the entryway.. its mellow, floral with a hint of zest..

I follow her in.

She drops her bags near the chair and turns around.

Our eyes engage for a long moment.

I want to stop looking at her but I can’t, she’s hypnotising. Those greenish grey eyes, I could drown in them.

She slowly approaches and I begin to feel a slight tremor.

What is that? Nerves? I’m never nervous around desirable women, why am I trembling now? Can she see it too?

I should ask her something.. anything..

“Can I get you something to drink? Water, wine, anything else? I can call the bar if..”

Her right index finger executes my sentence in its tracks.

She’s touching my lips.

She reaches for my belt and pulls me close to her body.

she’s so warm.

Her lips are on mine now.

I can not uphold my composure anymore, wrapping my arms around her I embrace her completely.

She reciprocates and we dance a dance of passion, my hands exploring every curve of hers, her hands holding on to my back.

Our body heat amalgamated …

‘this is incredible’, i am gleeing internally in disbelief, ‘I can hardly believe it is real!’ But it is.

We only have the night ahead and I will make it incredible for her.

The morning after

Him

Rejuvenated after a night of making love, I felt rested.

I had no physical energy left in me but my soul, my spirit was the fullest it had been in years. I haven’t felt such intense passion even from my husband.

I could hear a shower running just beyond the wall as I laid in bed still nude, barely covered with no longer crisp, white cotton sheet.

Hot Arabian sun was fighting its way through a gap in the window drapes.

Suns rays velvety warmth kissing the curve where my bum met my thigh.

He was no longer within, or near me.

Heavy drops of water I could hear, were telling a tale of last nights sins.

Sins he can not wash away.

Nor does he want to.

I raise and begin to gather my thoughts. Recollections of lustrous night I endured.

Slipping my arms into his shirt I miss-button it, my thoughts are too many and distracting from the task of dressing up.

I pull up the chair.

Another recollection creeps in: “the chair I soaked with my white nectar yesterday, just before he carried me over to the wall in front of the mirror.. ough, I can not think straight!”

I sit in the armchair, bending my left knee upwards and the foot supporting itself at the edge of the seat. My right leg stretched out under the table.

I open my laptop and app of notes, I begin to type.

No structure, just a flowing stream of reminiscences from last night, of everything he did to me.

Everything I was afraid to try but submitted to him anyway.

Immersed into the screen making sure I note every detail, every feeling, every gasp of air.

“Keep writing” - i heard his masculine husky voice in my right ear; I did not hear him approach.

His left arm wrapped around my shoulder slipped through the miss-buttoned shirt, cupping my right breast.

His right hand sliding down toward my still engorged lower lips..

‘can I do this?’ - Internally I’m asking myself, wondering if I can maintain my focus on the task of writing.

I get my answer shortly as his right palm is now resting on my entire shameless garden, and his two middle fingers slip inside me as though he’s hooking me..

In and out, in, out, again and again…

“you’re so wet” - he states the obvious.

I turn my face away from the screen and meet his lips by my right shoulder.

“Keep writing?” I’m astounded, looking into his piercing brown eyes.

And with a heavy exhale I ask him; “How can I, through this?!

He kisses my lips as though reassuring me and with utmost seriousness he replies: “Keep writing, my dear”.

But I no longer can.