She has me pinned against the door; one hand around my neck and the other shoved down the front of my jeans. I struggle briefly; protesting “What if someone sees us?”
The museum is mostly deserted, only a handful of straggling tourists ambling from room to room. Here in the long corridor, we are alone for the moment, but anyone turning the corner couldn’t help but catch sight of us even tucked into the doorway niche as we are.
She laughs at me. “I’ll say you’ve got something in your eye” Mirth gives way to focus, her intent gaze making my stomach flutter. When she looks at me like this, I can almost feel the heat of her cobalt-laser eyes drilling into me. I relax and lean against the door, spreading my legs as wide as the confined space allows.
My libido woke from its temporary hibernation and delivered this dream, alongside my writing mojo. Welcome back to both. Please feel free next time not to drag That Guy up out of my subconscious along with you.
like all good parties, most of the action has coalesced in the kitchen. Guests lean against the counters, drinks in one hand, the other draped casually around nearby waists or scrabbling at tortilla chips. Robust opinions mingling in good-natured rowdiness against the backbeat of the nostalgic 90s Britpop blaring from the corner speakers.
I’m standing alone by the back door, trying not to sneak too many glances at him in case he notices. It’s been a long time since we split up, under not-entirely-amicable terms (for which I must accept my share of responsibility – which is most of it). He’s changed little, his long blond hair showing evidence of recent highlighting; handsome, boyish – almost delicate – Nordic cheekbones and wide blue eyes, tip-tilted nose a startling contrast to the sandy goatee and black leather clothing. My stomach flutters when I look at him. Admiration, for he is as pretty as I remembered. Apprehension, in case he is still angry or worse – disdainful. Hope. A tiny, flickering butterfly of hope. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Something.
Far below her, the Earth hangs bright and sparkling, a jewel of blue and white and green and brown nestling against the black velvet of space.
Tanya comes here as often as her full schedule permits, likes the serenity and spectacle of her home seen from orbit. As close to silent as possible in this humming, buzzing, creaking, clanking tin can, sometimes she visits for the tranquility. Not today though.
I’m not remotely susceptible to hypnosis, much to my bitter disappointment. Probably because of that, I find it fascinating and live in hope that it will work on me one day. I’d love to play with hypno-kink.