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Staying Inside

by Patrick M. Ohana 5 months ago in fiction

The Woman I Love

Photo by paulahelit on FreeImg

The woman I love is not a blond like in the pic above or a redhead or one who dyes her hair blue or purple. The woman I love has short dark brown-auburn hair and I love to stay inside her. It’s always warm and then hot and then warm again. I refuse to explode, so I can remain inside her forever minus an hour during which I could prepare to explode for the last time and be only stopped by death, the hunting ground for every love and life.

Being inside her is only equalled by watching her spread her pussy with both hands as I contemplate how to love her in a new or different way along some mystical path. My heart always deliquesces at the sight of her pussy. It’s, after all, the meaning of life, surely the meaning of mine. I first fell in love with her face, but then, after a few exchanges of words and kisses, I fell head over prick in love with her pussy. There’s no synonym for pussy. I reject all of them. Pussy is the most beautiful word of the English language and perhaps all human tongues. Maybe it’s the word that Earth should flash to any passing or lost spacecraft.

Being within her pussy is like winning an additional life. At this rate, I’ll become almost immortal, but it wouldn’t be worth it if she’s not by my side or on top. She’s a wild thing, a gentle beast, a beautiful being, a woman who can play me like a violin or some other stringed instrument. If I were a guitar, she would have played me like Hendrix, Manitas de Plata, or some Spanish flamenco player. I love her beyond any measure that I know of. Any survey or questionnaire will miss the mark and I would be an outlier.

Being so deep in her that I feel part of her, is always my objective, and when I succeed, I feel like shouting, goal, but only think it with a subdued smile. Methinks that she also thinks it, but she may scream, yes or encore in her mind. She never told me, and I didn’t tell her either that I used to play football (soccer) when I was still kicking the ball. I’m the ball now, to think of it. There’s a lot of thinking going on. Food for thought or thought for food? It may be the same thing, after all. Where’s the freaking ball?

Being in that pussy of love can raise more than my prick. My heart seems to float. My brain bathes in her glow and my lascivious thrusts. My hands are holding her ass at first for some time before I use a finger to look for her anus, so it can meet my prick when they feel each other only separated by a thin wall of her lovely inner skin. It’s the only time that I explode uncontrollably and thus I avoid this rendezvous between my prick and my finger, preferring to pursue the long road to carnal depletion.

Being where she wants me to be without even asking me to be there always includes a forthcoming dividend on her part. She looks into my eyes and guesses what I may want even if I don’t want anything else but to be glued to her body and face until sleep takes over with its blanket and her hand on my chest to calm down my palpitating heart. She always guesses right except once when she gave me head and I didn’t want any of it, still in blissful reverie after she had orgasmed in my face with a little cute squirt. Her good guesses always oscillate between having me love her pussy from behind or rubbing her feet against my prick.

Being with her is the meaning of my life, especially when she smiles with her eyes and her mouth. I see myself in them, but a different me in each one of her eyes. Her right eye shows me happy, jumping up and down. I’m happy as well in her left eye, except that in this stunning sphere of light, I suddenly disappear as I close my eyes to kiss her mouth and taste what I want from her and life. I want her tongue and she knows it, giving me free range over that secondary prick that also gets wet in anticipation of all the love and lust to come. Her tongue is a promise that she’ll love me no matter what.

Being at all has finally become being for her, and being in her has always been a goal even before I was born. I felt it the first time that I saw her. It’s hard to relate, but I felt my mind melting first before my heart followed like a lover who can only look up. She had been with someone else before my literary arrival, but a few weeks later, she was mine. Not in the real sense yet, but enough to warrant her arrest by the Guardians of Love.

“Do you love him?” one of the guardians asked. There were four of them. They always arrive in fours. One for each of the two lovers and two for the sake of love. It’s a mystical arrangement beyond the scope of this tale.

“I’m in love with him with all my heart and my light,” she replied.

“What about your other life?” the same guardian asked.

“What other life?” she replied.

“It’s not what you usually hold,” another guardian said.

“I know, I know, but now I know that he’s my true love, my soulmate,” she replied, somewhat elated.

“But you knew it from the beginning. You even said it more than once. Yet you dismissed him, telling him not to wait but find someone else, as if he ever could,” the first guardian said.

“I know again, but my heart was controlled by my previous life. I couldn’t just leave it behind. I know that others can, and do, but I wasn’t like that,” she replied.

“What changed your mind and your heart?” both guardians asked in unison.

“He did, with his words. I was also afraid that he might die. I knew that soulmates who finally meet cannot ever separate again, since the one who refuses to unite with the other, condemns the latter to an early death. I had forgotten about it, but he reminded me in a story that he wrote for me,” she replied.

“And what about your previous life?” the first guardian asked.

“I’ve presented my case, which, of course, was dismissed. But after explaining the extent of my love for him, they acquiesced, albeit vehemently, which threw me off the path to him but only for a short while as I knew that he was dying in the meantime, waiting for me to land in his life, in our real life,” she replied with tears in her eyes.

“As the Guardians of Love we decree that since your love was ordained long ago in the stars, you have to be together for the rest of your lives. You are both good souls, and good souls should be together, as they flow with each other towards the light. Each one of you alone will reach the light polluted and be relegated to endless mending,” the second guardian said.

“That may be another reason why I decided to be with him,” she replied, looking up at the sky, his favourite vista after her eyes and all the rest of her.

I thus owe the remainder of my life to her and the Guardians of Love. I always thank them in my prayers and I’m an avowed atheist, which, of course, doesn’t make any sense, unless you understand that love isn’t a religion. Love is a cosmic endeavour that starts as soon as the umbilical cord is severed to allow the beginning of freedom to love anyone, that is until you find your true love, your soulmate.

fiction

Patrick M. Ohana

Medical writer who prefers to read and write fiction and some nonfiction, though the latter may appear at times as the former. anthi-and-m.com

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