Christmas in a Cemetary, Part II

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense, kindled at the muse’s flame.

Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

***

White marble archway; black gown; crimson panties under fingers that trace edges. This touch teaches you how to be exposed. This touch teaches you how to be vulnerable. This touch teaches you to belong to my fingers. This is the way your body responds, the little involuntary moves it makes when teased. The shifting of your hips back against me. The catch in breathing. The way your head turns towards your arm, brushing cheek against smooth skin. The sounds you make when a finger brushes against you.

There is the scent of desire, a taste in your skin, under my lips, in the press of hands burning their place into your thighs. There is a moment when my fingers move to your stomach, splayed fingers in position, the tips sliding just under the edge of the fabric, between cloth and skin, an invasion of sorts. Invited or not, requested or not, it is there and you know, in that moment of pressure as fingers dip lower, that you want it.

You lower yourself, pressing back, ass against my thighs, and your body becoming an arch of its own within the white marble gateway. My fingers are instruments, playing on your skin and driving the tension deeper with each slip of skin.

This…here…is how it feels….with fingers…on you…standing, gown half drawn around your waist, an almost-stranger pressing his hand between your thighs and holding you there, poised, his teeth grazing the edge of your ear, a distraction.

And…this…is where it starts, as fingers wrest your panties away from your skin, drawing them lazily over your thighs, a process slow enough to be *experienced*, the vestiges of covering divulged and left to slip to your ankles.

Nothing. That is what is between your thighs and the air. Nothing. That is what is between the heat and desire at the apex of your thighs, and my fingers. And everything, that is what is contained in the steady pulse of my fingertips as they find the hidden nub between your thighs. Everything, as nerve endings awaken and attune to my touch. Everything is what I am to you in the moment you feel it.

You give yourself to me in the way your thighs part even further to give me room to touch. You give yourself to me in the growing unease of your body as wanting becomes needing and your hips press back against me. You find a freedom that, holding yourself as a sacrifice within the marble archway, An offering to my hunger. An offering of life to the dead around us.

The warm press of lips on the back of your neck. The lowering heat of my body as I sink to my knees behind you, hands following down the insides of your thighs. My breath against the small of your back, the bunched black cloth brushing the top of my head.

One breath, another, lips so close to you skin you can sense more than feel them, parting, moist and hot against the indent that starts the curve of your ass. Like waiting to feel where my lips will fall next. Will it be along the curve of your backside, a subtle and naughty taste along your bared skin? Will it be teeth biting into the skin along your sides? Lips leaving small wet kisses along the back of your thighs?

The story hinges, here. It rests of the moment I nuzzle the back of your spread thighs, my breath becoming mist in the winter air. Wanting you to feel how close I am. And you do feel it. The way my nose brushes against the line between your cheeks, the way my lips find the most sensitive spot along your thighs to taste, the way my hands draw your legs further apart. The way you become wet for me.

A kiss nestled between the back of your thighs. A kiss from behind. A kiss of parted lips. A kiss of tongues and flesh. A kiss dressed in black cloth, hidden by your dress.

Can you feel it when I kiss? Where my face would press, deep enough to taste from behind?

I can see you leaning forward, hands braced on the marble. Opening yourself to my kiss. Baring yourself to my hunger.

My hands wrapped around your upper thighs to keep you there. The first time my tongue slips against you to lick the line from your heat and the edge of your ass. So very slowly, just the tip of my tongue there. Just enough for you to know where it is. Where it moves.

Keeping you on that edge, my fingers tightening, holding you, your trembling driving me further, the edge of my tongue dipping just along the line between your cheeks. Holding your weight with my hands as you lower yourself further still.

Urgency in the way you move, the heat and wetness against my face with you parted before me. An urgency I play into now, the edge of my tongue dancing back and forth along the sides of your clit, hard, quick, steady, until you give way, letting go with a startled gasp that leaves you panting. So quickly, that release, so fast in the way you give in to me.

So quickly our lives are spent. Moments made of these, sparks of life against the flint of marble stone, a brief flare of lust and need, and now there is the cooling, staved off by the press of warm skin, a clasping of bodies within winter’s baring touch.