Stories in the Attic - Chapter Thirteen

She opened her eyes to the dawn light and listened. Birds. With the windows open, the birds sounded loud and insistent. Why did they sing in the morning? She wondered a moment. They seemed happy. Was night so terrible that dawn brought joyful release? Or were their trills and whistles something else, a greeting perhaps? Were the birds wooing in the dawn gray? She thought a moment. How would it feel to be wooed in the morning? She closed her eyes and listened to the birds and imagined his hands on her. How would they feel at first light? She knew how they felt at night, that fevered tenseness of his hands as he roamed her body. His hands were predators at night. They treated her like home territory, touching and rubbing and caressing and massaging, owning her. Night hands found her responding quickly and wetly, her need running close to the surface. Her skin felt thinly stretched over the passion beneath. Night love seemed easy.

Dawn love? She imagined his hands on her back. These weren't predator hands. These were explorer hands, hands treating her as new territory, as something never before seen or experienced. Tentative, prayerful, fingers tiptoed across her skin. Was she still a bundle of passion, or were the fires banked for the night, a single ember, a relic of the night fire. His hands would be bird-like in the morning. His fingers would coo and trill and soothe, whistling a question and waiting for an answer.

Those wonderful exploratory hands would slide down her back and across her tush, touching, kneading. A supplicant finger would slide down between her buns and touch her, wondering if her body had begun to respond. This wasn't some wild animal lapping her juice but a rabbit tasting, sipping. This was a lark hopping about, nibbling at her. She could feel the beak-like finger slipping inside her, ready to retreat if she wasn't ready.

But she was ready, and the fearful little bird hopped inside her. She felt his warm breath on her back, a shower of his breathing. A tongue licked at her skin, tasting as a chef tastes a sauce. No guzzling, the tongue sips her, savoring the nuances of her body. She knows she can stop him at any time, and nothing would be wrong. This isn't night fever but dawn breakfast, a light repast to break the night's fast. The timid bird bathes in her juice. The light tongue traces dawn designs on her back. Squeezing the little beast, she feels the morning warm. That tippling tongue dances up her back over her neck, around her ears. Her body gushes. Her orgasm ripples through her. No big splash, this orgasm is a pebble tossed into the pond of her emotions, small riplets spreading evenly from the epicenter of her body.

His lips find her neck. The small beastie retreats. She floats in the early morning, content for the moment with the ripples. The waves will come later. For now, she listens to the birds and silently thanks him for his attention. Dawn love. Delicious in its delicacy.

Music purrs from the speakers set in the corners. You love the gentle sound, a background sound that massages the body as well as the psyche. A cool zephyr wafts through the open window. The smell of rain tantalizes your nose. Fall rain smells different than Spring rain, and you relish the change. Pulling your legs beneath you, you snuggle on the couch, feeling cool, a delicious cool that heightens your senses. Yellow light spills warmly over your lap and the book you intend to read. Outside in the dark, the crickets' chirps slow, no longer driven by summer fever.

Your long, dark hair falls about your face, shielding you from the mess of office and kitchen. You will clean them in time. Now, you wish to read, to savor a few minutes of quiet music and rain-filled breeze. You wonder where he is tonight, what is he doing? Does he sit in a chair somewhere, reading a paper, sipping a bottle of beer, and wondering about you? Does he lower the paper for a moment, gaze into the dark, and picture your face? Does your smile haunt his mind? Do his lips purse to touch your imaginary ones? Does his heart swell with sudden need? Does his breath pause for a moment? Does a heat like molten silver course through his body, centering in his loins? Does he long for you?

You blow breath through pursed lips and shake the image from your mind. He yearns for you. You feel that as surely as you feel the night wind. His body and mind wish to leap the miles and land squarely on the couch, grinning and laughing and searching you with his eyes.

But he isn't there.

You open the manuscript and begin to read. Your mind shuts down out the input from your senses. You concentrate on the words, those lovely words he wrote for you. He sends the words when he can't be there, and you love the words that are so much him. The words draw you close to him. His words are advance sentinels, reminding you of how you are with him, how he is with you. The words are reminders of his body, his scent, his lopsided smile that makes you laugh. The words are his eyes and lips and nose and arms, well-shaped arms. Strong legs are like the long words in his manuscript. You notice the line of his thigh, the curve of his calf. Short words remind you of his fingers and toes and the hair on his chest, his nipples. Whole sentences portray the ridges of his abdomen, the little hillocks you love to run your finger over, like a skier negotiating moguls. Dialogue reminds you of his spine, a series of bumps you count every time you see him.

The best part of him arrives with those burning passages where he describes your encounters, where he relives those moments when your face is above his and every nerve and muscle in your body feeds on his energy. When he fashions those paragraphs you feel him again. Your body shifts slightly, finding a perfect fit. You can't help it. The words are him.

As you read, you notice a word slip off the page. Odd, but you don't mind. Caress is the word, a fine word, six letters that form a kind of finger that slips beneath your T-shirt and tiptoes across your warm, soft skin. The word zigzags slowly up your chest, pausing to circle like a dog chasing its tail, leaving orbits of heat. A word? No, not a word, part of him, the caterpillar of letters inches between your breasts, and you feel the tips of the letters raking your skin, plowing tiny grooves in your flesh. The word turns and mounts your breast, finding and tasting a nipple raised like a hay stack on your field of flesh. Caress feeds on that nipple, nibbling and biting. A word such as Caress needs nothing more than your firm nipple to be happy, to share its joy. You can feel it beneath your T-shirt, a hungry yet satisfying word.

Lips leaps off the page and without pausing climbs your shirt. Four small letters, they march in unison, bent on higher elevations than the other word. You are amazed as the word-creature strides up your throat, leaving warm impressions where it steps but not pausing, not waiting. The word slips along your cheek and dives onto your lips, spreading itself to cover your mouth, breathing into you, teasing you with its daring. You swear Lips is moist and warm, and yet it's merely a word. You drink from the word, savoring the taste, so much his taste, his Lips.

You unfold your legs as the night breeze soothes. Stroke slithers off the page, and you watch it worm under your shirt and down inside your jeans. You suck in your stomach a little to allow the word access, and it slides down your silk panties like a sled on ice. Oops, the word slides too far, tumbling down your thigh. You feel the word grab and slow on your inner thigh, on that favored bit of skin. Stroke nestles a moment against your thigh before it climbs up to those silken panties that suddenly seem moist. What kind of beast is this word that seeks your moisture? The word pushes inward on those panties until they absorb some of your wetness, until they are saturated with the essence of you. Then, the word sups at that soaked silk, licking again and again. Insatiable, the word crawls beneath the elastic and squirms toward the well of hot juice. Your legs spread automatically as Stroke quenches its thirst at your font, delving deep inside to sample the nectar. You close your eyes and let the words feed on your body.

Other words jump off the page and join their comrades. Kiss, Lick, Tongue, Pinch, and Knead frolic on your body like children on a playground. The words find spots and places to practice their special magic. Your dictionary body responds to the measured meanings, and you gush with fresh scent and juice. Still more words pour from the page, an army of words that dance and cavort to their pleasure and yours. The weight of them reminds you of him, of his body on yours, of him deep inside you. Your breath quickens. Your hips rise. Spasms ripple through you, and yet the words do not stop. They are tireless in their pursuit of meaning. Your hips pump harder and faster, perhaps trying to buck those words that hang on with renewed intensity. Faster, harder, your body responds to words in ways you never thought possible until you realize an orgasm is but moments away. The words anticipate your release, and in a symphony of concerted effort scramble to fulfill their destiny. Your body convulses with orgasmic power and purpose. The words scream with delight. You drift into that nether world where only feelings count.

As your body relaxes, the words slowly, reluctantly abandon you. One by one, they return to the page until only Caress is left. As the word works its way down your skin, you open your eyes. For a moment, you see his face next to yours, his bright eyes, cool smile. You smile as his face fades. The word appears from beneath your shirt and takes up his spot on the page. Your body shivers in postpartum delight. The orgasm was so much like him...the best of him. Only, he would want to do it again....again.

You smile.

Turning the page, you wonder....

The vanilla starts it. You're drinking a Coke, and you remember how good vanilla cokes tasted when you were a teenager. You used to stop by the drugstore, the one with the soda fountain, and order a vanilla coke. You would sit on a red, vinyl swivel stool and spin back and forth while sipping coke. Becky would meet you. You would giggle and laugh and watch the boys buy candy or gum. You remember Joel. He was a hunk even then, and he would buy Mars candy bars. Two or three afternoons a week, you would sip vanilla coke and watch Joel buy a Mars bar. You miss that simple life. So when you remember Becky and the drugstore, you pluck the vanilla flavoring off the shelf and pour some into your glass. As you stir, the vanilla aroma rises, and you forget the drugstore. You remember him.

He doesn't smell like vanilla. No, the hand lotion smells like vanilla, the lotion he smears on your skin after the shower. He carries you to the bed and pours lotion into his hands, warming it before he applies it to your skin. You love the feel of his hands on you, how he massages the lotion all over. Neck, back, legs, tush. You love how he rubs your tush. You can feel his fingers, warm and slick with lotion. He takes his time and rubs deep, and the heat between your legs is suddenly a fire. You smell the vanilla, but your body burns with a need you swear comes from some red hot coals buried deep inside.

When he rolls you over and begins on your arms, you feel the moistness between your legs. He rubs each finger, your palm, forearm, shoulder. When he touches your hardening nipples, you bite your lip to keep from moaning. His hands circle and knead, and the vanilla scent drifts over you. Down your tummy, the hands move, taking care. Across the hips and those bones that lie near the skin, those sensitive bones. More lotion. When his hands leave your skin for the moments it takes to add lotion, you miss them. Wetter, hotter.

Down one thigh, smoothing the lotion deep. Over the knee, down the shin, around the ankle, each piggy toe. You want him to come back, to find that source of wet fire in your body, but he starts on the other foot. Toe, foot, ankle, knee, thigh. You burn and surely he'll touch you now, won't he? Vanilla is overpowering now, masking his scent, that musk you love. His hands leave your skin, and you want to look, but you can't open your eyes. Where are those hands, those fingers?

They find you.

Slick, the fingers slip along your reservoir of fire. They spread you automatically and slide inside. They massage and touch and begin to stroke, and you feel yourself wet them, gush over them. Those vanilla fingers sink deep and roam and probe, searching. He lies down next to you, and you feel his warm breath on your breast. He reminds you of a dragon, hot breath and sharp teeth that find your nipple. His bite is firm but not hard, enough to pull but not to rip. The vanilla hand rubs you anew, and you squirm against it. Nothing feels like this. Dragon teeth nip and nibble.

Your hips rise against those fingers, stroking. You grab his shoulder and arm and begin to push harder, faster. The fingers probe deeper, harder, a piston of vanilla flavored power driving inside you. Lips and teeth plunder your nipples. You squeeze your thighs together as the fingers begin to fly. Faster and faster, harder, your body arches against him, searching for sweet release.

His hands were made for you, his touch designed to please you. You spurt and gush, and the fingers move with new frenzy. Hot breath washes over you. You clamp and squeeze as the orgasm rushes out. It's as if the orgasm has to escape your body, shooting over his hand and arm, leaving you, draining you. For a moment, it's as if your life force flies with your orgasm.

The spasms slow. The fingers touch gently. Lips find yours.

Vanilla. He smells of vanilla.