(no subject)
the secret of figs, doctor/rose, adult
his fingers bring back the feel, the taste of her, 198 words
italicized lines come from the poem figs by d h lawrence. This is an experiment of sorts i've wanted to try for ages.
all five (human) senses
No matter how often he's washed his hands, Rose's scent keeps clinging to his fingers. Sap that smells strange on your fingers.
He covers his mouth with his hand, inhales deeply. Closes his eyes.
His fingers bring back the feel, the taste of her; her whimpers, as she twists away and into his mouth; the velvet of her skin. It's almost like apricots. He can feel the juice dribbling drown his chin and he has to close his eyes.
Her fingers are in his hair, her words, incoherent though they are, fill his ears.
He wishes he could see her, but she has blindfolded him.
Softer than apricots. Juicier.
Figs.
She writhes in his grip, moans, “Just put your mouth...”
“Till... you burst to give up your ghost,” he thinks. And she does.
Her secret is laid bare.
Her love for him, her trust.
Just putyour mouth to the crack...
He sits up, his eyes snap open. No blindfold. But all Rose. Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips.
“I love you.”
And they, she and him, prove the poet wrong. Ripe figs won't keep, but you can, and do, enjoy them.
his fingers bring back the feel, the taste of her, 198 words
italicized lines come from the poem figs by d h lawrence. This is an experiment of sorts i've wanted to try for ages.
all five (human) senses
No matter how often he's washed his hands, Rose's scent keeps clinging to his fingers. Sap that smells strange on your fingers.
He covers his mouth with his hand, inhales deeply. Closes his eyes.
His fingers bring back the feel, the taste of her; her whimpers, as she twists away and into his mouth; the velvet of her skin. It's almost like apricots. He can feel the juice dribbling drown his chin and he has to close his eyes.
Her fingers are in his hair, her words, incoherent though they are, fill his ears.
He wishes he could see her, but she has blindfolded him.
Softer than apricots. Juicier.
Figs.
She writhes in his grip, moans, “Just put your mouth...”
“Till... you burst to give up your ghost,” he thinks. And she does.
Her secret is laid bare.
Her love for him, her trust.
Just putyour mouth to the crack...
He sits up, his eyes snap open. No blindfold. But all Rose. Now, the secret
Becomes an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips.
“I love you.”
And they, she and him, prove the poet wrong. Ripe figs won't keep, but you can, and do, enjoy them.