“nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”

It was raining when I arrived at her place, and it would be raining when I left.

It was a downstairs apartment, the bottom floor of a townhouse, and the entrance was along the side of the building. I waited in the small stone alcove, away from the rain,  and she greeted me at the door in a sheer nightgown over a pair of boy shorts that accentuated her curved hips.

Her living room was decorated with tasteful items collected from her travels; it wasn't a large apartment, but it was crafted with warm character. She offered me a glass of wine from the opened bottle on the stone kitchen aisle; I nodded, and she poured us both drinks, bringing them to the couch.

It was late, and I knew she was tired, but there was curiosity in her eyes and I could scent the lingering affects of our phone conversation forty minutes earlier.

I was here because she could quote e.e.cummings. And because she drew herself in the shape of a woman who knew the value of release.

An hour into the conversation, she stood and walked to the bedroom door. She assumed I would follow her; she had made it clear that were I to come over, she wanted me to spend the night.

I followed.

She was standing by the side of the bed when I came up behind her, slipping the robe from her shoulders. My fingers drew her short dark hair to the side and my lips found the curve of her throat. She leaned into the kiss, her head tilting backwards, and I drank in the warmth of her skin, brushing my lips across the nape of her neck.

Gently, I turned her around and pressed her down onto the bed, my fingers catching the sides of her white boy shorts, tugging them over her hips and legs, and then she was under me, soft and pliant. I learned her through kisses, slow lingering kisses along her collar bone, selfish hungry ones along the slopes of her breasts.

We slept in moments that night; again, and again, I woke her with a light touch along her hip, or the inside of her thigh, and I would spend the next hour savoring the length of her, a languid insatiability explored through the subtleties of unceasingly desire until we would fall asleep, only to wake again soon after.

6 thoughts on ““nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands””

  1. Love that quote – I always hear Ron Perlman’s voice saying it — from his collection of poetry readings in the “Beauty & the Beast” days.

    Mmm. As always your writing is wonderfully evocative. I could almost smell the acrid tang of rain washed streets, and the warmth of your lady friend’s apartment. It sounds as if it was a night of simple beauty and pleasure…

    I am glad for you.

  2. It’s funny… up til about a year ago, I lived in the same general area you do (based on your “suburb of DC” description). I’d read your blog and I’d often wonder what would happen if I ever seeked you out… what I could learn as a submissive from you. But I never did, partially because I didn’t think I was ready for a scene that was more sex than love.
    But now you write about tenderness and it makes me wonder if even sex, without love, can hold that level of comfort and support people associate with making love. Perhaps if there’s a connection – such as shared love of a poet’s work – or perhaps even simply appreciation of one another’s beauty in both body and mind.
    Of course, it could also simply be your choice in how you portrayed it. I have the impression that you’ve changed a great deal in the last year, and that’s impacted what you seek.

  3. it sounds wonderfully intimate, your little tyrst …I’m sure she was thinking “i like my body when it is with your body”….

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