Concentric (the first)

Mr Bram Stroker is kindly sharing another of his alluring, but darkly sexy sexy connections. Buckle up for the ride – here’s how it begins.

White Shirt by Juergen_G on Pixabay

‘What will you give to me ‘ she whispered ‘If I do all you ask?’
He paused. Contemplating his response before lifting his head to gaze at her.
‘Everything’. He said.
Just a dream. An adolescent memory …

A little older now. Her life a series of routines. Work. Home. Children; on repeat. The intensity of youth replaced by something else. But the craving – how it had grown. It swelled inside her. An insatiable unabated hum. When she pictured him, the beating intensified. The want.

Closing her eyes, her reverie took her to the fantasy she yearned for. The door closed and as it bolted she shook herself from her dreamscape, clearing her vision. Looked around and he was there. Standing before her. Watching her.

His odour filled the room. This foreign place. Tones of whiskey, leather, tobacco. Her lip quivered. Neither spoke. The mist of the warm evening billowing through the open French patio. Half lit, the room was as the dappled light of autumn. She breathed him deeply; and held it.

Opening her eyes once more she moved as to speak, but fiercely gripped the bedding when she saw he’d stood. As he neared, the Indian cotton twisted in her grip and she sensed perspiration stream along the length of her spine.

Closer he prowled. Panther-like through the shadows, appearing at will. The brilliance of his white buttoned shirt, the only constant. She could hear his smooth leather soles tapping across the polished floor boards. She gasped. Gently.

A siren sounded outside. Shocking her into a semi consciousness and as she turned to enquire, his hand softly touched her shoulder.

She felt him breeze ethereally past her. His fingers traversed her clavicle, tracing the delicate line or the fine golden coloured chain that lay there. Across her shoulder to the nape of her neck. Her head dropped and her hair cascaded over her face.

How could this be? What was this? Tensing each muscle, she bit hard on her lip. Before she felt the bed sink under his weight.

The stiletto heel toppled beneath her foot and she sensed the cold oak on her skin. Curling her toes as if to grip the floor. To anchor herself to the here; to the now.

She exhaled. Throwing her head back, her hair a perfect plume above her. Spreading her palms across the crumpled sheets she lay back, into his waiting embrace. He spoke:

‘Do you surrender, freely ‘ … And she hesitated.
And as she hesitated, she looked at herself, except she was seeing as if through His eyes. The scars, tolls and marks of time, the accumulated imperfections now seemed somehow insignificant, irrelevant. She saw what He could see. She could see want. Desire.

And she fell. Freely. Tumbling back into the thick down mattress. As she did, it seemed to envelop her as she sank deeper. The bed was consuming her.

Gazing up through opaque light she could see the form of Him. His skin tones seemed to change as she watched: dark, black, white. Surely the effects of the light. His physique was not that of an athlete. It was not sculpted. Or chiselled. It was what she wanted. It was what she was searching for.

As she lay back into the warming embrace of the mattress, his face was inverted above. As He lowered his head, she could see the cut of His clothing. A white cotton shirt, the collar cut in the French style. Cuffs, double, held with black Onyx links set in platinum. The sleeves perfectly pressed with a crease that could cut. His top button was unfastened. She could see an iridescent pearl sheen on each button, noticing that the second was also open. They shimmered in the dimming light. And still the smell. The lingering scent of incense.

As the soft pillowed bed swallowed her, He slowly lowered his face. Bringing it closer to hers, disappearing and re-emerging equally between the shadows. And as He did, she saw the face. But like a Victorian lantern show dancing in the light. She saw not one … But the face of every man for whom she had ever hungered. The college crush, the rock star, the actor, her neighbour. They were all Him. Every man she had ever ached for. The cinema spin of the show slowed, before resting at the one she had wanted, always. The one she needed. Him.

Her head tilted, fixing on Him. Their eyes locked in anticipation…

The dress she wore clung to her body, binding her to the bed; he must have noticed as she raised her hips momentarily. Slowly, He stretched across her, his body tight and firm. Quietly shimmering over her.

The scent grew around her and she felt when He extended his limbs over her. Slowly. Precisely. Nothing was rushed. He had all the time she had ever wanted. The detail was in the Devil

And when she surrendered, He would own her. Branding her. Her hesitation was gone.

His ice flame tipped talons scraped along the curvature of her body, tracing at the underwear beneath. She couldn’t recall what she’d worn, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. He was transfixed by her.

His eyes, blue, or green, or dark pools of obsidian pitch, seemed to change as she looked deeper. He was everything and all.

‘Everything’ she said ‘I want everything ‘…

And as the last syllable travelled the short distance between them, His hand touched the bare skin of her soft throat. His finger, extended, slid deftly from her inviting chin, along the elegance of her neck, playfully twisting the necklace gifted at her communion. A trinket. He ripped at it, pulling it from her to discard it. He marked her. He marked her.

She twisted her head into the pillow. A faux resistance as he slowly dragged his nail across her chest, seemingly counting the ribs beneath. She caught herself breathlessly joining him. Her pelvis pressed into the sheets.

As his finger tip reached the neck line of her dress, patterned, floral, regular, he toyed with the small buttoned fastening. Spinning it between his fingers. The thread grew taut. He applied more force and it separated from the cloth. Lower. A second button released from it’s loop. Then another. So quickly she was undone. So quickly he was undoing her.

Her dress lay across her body. Positioned as it had been, but unbuttoned completely. He stood. And slowly moved to the foot of the bed. Never taking His eyes from her. Hers never left him. Her heart pulsed. A drum beating rapidly. So loud. He must hear it. His form now clearer before her. He was her want. All. Everything.

He positioned himself at her feet. Her other shoe fell to the floor. She could feel the rigidity of his thighs against her knees. What? How was this happening?

He whispered. She didn’t hear. Her frustration clear.

‘I said …pull it aside’ he repeated.

She took the edges of her dress in her grip and, with a confidence that she thought had left her in her youth, she unveiled herself to him. The majesty of her. His want. Her need.

[To be continued …]

Submitted for #SnakeDensAtoZ : Getting Hot in Here, #WickedWednesday : Balance & #SaturdayNightFever

8 thoughts on “Concentric (the first)”

  1. Pingback: Concentric (the third) - Posy Churchgate ~ Pillow Talk

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