Afterglow

We lie on a crumpled sheet that not long before had been meticulously smoothed down. The duvet with its flower pattern lies in a psychadelic ball beneath our feet. The air we breathe in the darkened room is warm and heavy with the scent of sweat and ylang ylang, of her and of me. Of sex.

She's hot, where only seconds ago in the throes and tears of her ecstacy she shivered. Her skin glistens in the glow from the radio. I can smell her perspiration and long to lick it from her, but a hand passed lightly across her abdomen is all the bodily contact she can bear right now, a hand that cannot resist the lure of further down, where her smooth stomach funnels down and is decorated with a proud mass of hair, now somewhat matted from our exertions.

I had knelt up behind her as she sat on the edge of the bed while I massaged her neck and shoulders with soothing oils. I knelt beside her as she lay face down and I ran my slippery hands all the way up and down her back. I knelt astride her legs as she knelt on all fours, inviting -no, craving - penetration. I knelt beside her and clasped her to me as, overwhelmed at last, she collapsed and the tears flowed freely. I knelt once again behind her as her legs intertwined with mine, pulling me closer onto her until I too found my release.

And now, as I lie on the bed I realise how tired I am. It is only now as I have the opportunity to relax every tense muscle that I realise that I am aching all over from the day’s work.

She’s cooler now, lying on her side curled up as if a foetus again. And I am to play the enveloping uterus, offering warmth, protection, security. I wrap my arms around her. The hand that had closed round her throat or roughly grabbed her hair and jerked back her head just minutes ago is now resting on her breasts, marvelling at their smoothness and softness. The hand that so recently smacked her until she yelped and then was thrust inside her is now lightly brushing her pubic hair. She’s blissful, serene, trusting. She knows that these hands will not hurt her now. Nor ever will again unless she wish it.

Despite ourselves, it’s late. Despite reminding each other several times during the evening that we had to get an early night, each reminder being reinforced with a pointed look and a half smile. But there was a lot to take care of, and there'll doubtless be even more to do in the morning. The glowing segments of the digital display deliver their verdict with atomic accuracy. 2 am. We both crave sleep, but crave this closeness more. I tuck my knees in behind hers and rest my head on her neck, the remains of my hardness still sufficient to press into the small of her back. Even though it's dark and she's facing away from me I can imagine her smile as she feels it. I ask he if she has worn a necklace with a leather cord today. She says she has and asks why. Above the all-pervading scent of the ylang ylang massage oil I can still smell the leather on her neck.

We talk of all sorts of things, important and inconsequential. Gradually her speech becomes more slurred. She misses out whole sentences or maybe it is just me that has missed them. In a moment of lucidity I realise that I had been talking gibberish. An image flashes into my mind of an arab dhow being sucked into a whirlpool while I stand on a beach and watch and then another image comes to me, of my wife laid out before me naked and surrounded by slave girls as in a harem, while I pump literally gallons of my semen over her flat, almost concave, stomach.




When I wake next morning those dreams are still as clear and vivid as if they had just happened and she is still lying in my arms. She stretches out, offering me new opportunities for me to run my hands all over her. She reaches out behind her and guides my head towards hers, straining until our lips meet.

"I needed that" she says.

"The sleep?" I ask "Or the fuck?"

She kisses me again.

"Both".