Pumpkin Pie 4, Sea Salt 9: Adrift
Title: Adrift
Main Story: In The Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Pumpkin pie 4 (bump in the night), sea salt 9 (steam), caramel (OH SO CARAMEL), rainbow sprinkles (Will), cherry (erotic fiction/magical realism), chopped nuts (that magical realism AU).
Word Count: 409
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: William Kendall's most enduring love affair; the beginning.
Notes: Genre du jour is erotica plus a second whack at magical realism, although the "magical" bit won't come into play until the second half of this.
WARNING: explicit sex.
It's always the same dream.
He's underwater, suspended in the deep endless blue of the ocean far from any shore. He can't see anything; not the surface, not the seafloor, no horizon to any side. The world is motionless and featureless, still and silent.
In reality, he'd be terrified, but in the dream he just hangs there, his arms and legs spread out, his eyes open to that unvarying blue. He's breathing steadily, in and out, his lungs unfazed by the entrance of water instead of air. He's naked, nothing between him and the sea. He opens his mouth and tastes salt; he spreads his fingers, feeling the water slide between them, cool and soft.
Then hands slide over his shoulders, soft and cool.
He isn't surprised. He never is, in the dream, because he knows that she's there, the same way that he knows that he's there. How could she not be, after all?
He holds still while the hands slide down his stomach, pinning his arms to his sides as they do. He knows what's coming, and it isn't bad. She rests her hands on his abdomen for a moment, then lets them float downwards to caress him, until he thickens and rises under her touch.
She releases him then, and drifts lazily in front of him, so he can see her for the first time.
He is never surprised that she is made all of water, the same deep blue of the ocean but perhaps a little lighter, as if clear glass slicks all her limbs and defines her. He is never surprised that she wears nothing but her long swirling hair and an inviting smile. But he is always surprised at how beautiful she is. She looks different every time-- sometimes resembling a girl he likes, sometimes a celebrity he thinks is hot, sometimes a statue or a painting, sometimes nothing he's ever seen or ever will see-- but she's beautiful, always, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. His mouth opens at how beautiful she is, and he reaches for her.
She smiles at that, puts her cool hands on his face and kisses his open mouth. She tastes like salt.
He puts his arms around her waist, pulls her tight against him. She feels like a woman, like every woman, her flesh yielding and soft, her skin cool and slick with water. She winds her hands in his hair, her grip surprisingly tight, and they hang together in the endless blue, mouth to mouth, skin to skin, just kissing. Just touching.
Then it goes further. He pulls away from her just enough to bend his head to her breasts, to kiss their smooth slopes and take her nipples in his mouth. She moans and tilts her hips forward, pressing against him. His hands skim her hips, cup her buttocks, slide between her legs and caress there, the only part of the dream he registers as wet, the only part of her where he feels heat. She laughs a little and grips him, stroking, her hand loose at first and then tighter, until he feels he's going to burst.
She always knows when that moment comes. She puts a hand on his shoulder, pushes herself up and sinks down, guiding him inside her with another soft laugh. Within, she is warm, a tropical current of not-quite-living heat that embraces him tightly. He puts his face in her cool shoulder and grips her hips-- she puts her other hand on his shoulders and clings, long smooth fingers digging into his shoulders. She rises and falls like a wave on the sand, ebbing and flowing, every movement curling grace.
He wishes it could go on forever, the two of them entwined, suspended in the endless blue.
It never does. His body tightens inexorably-- she pulls his head back with a hand in his hair and kisses him hard-- he thrusts up into her and comes with a shout into her mouth. She caresses his throat, gently, traces a line down his body. He closes his eyes to better feel her touch and when he opens them, he is staring at his bedroom ceiling, his sheets sticky around his thighs, his hair damp, the taste of salt in his mouth.
It's always the same dream. He doesn't dream it every night.
But oh, how he misses it when he doesn't.
Main Story: In The Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Pumpkin pie 4 (bump in the night), sea salt 9 (steam), caramel (OH SO CARAMEL), rainbow sprinkles (Will), cherry (erotic fiction/magical realism), chopped nuts (that magical realism AU).
Word Count: 409
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: William Kendall's most enduring love affair; the beginning.
Notes: Genre du jour is erotica plus a second whack at magical realism, although the "magical" bit won't come into play until the second half of this.
WARNING: explicit sex.
It's always the same dream.
He's underwater, suspended in the deep endless blue of the ocean far from any shore. He can't see anything; not the surface, not the seafloor, no horizon to any side. The world is motionless and featureless, still and silent.
In reality, he'd be terrified, but in the dream he just hangs there, his arms and legs spread out, his eyes open to that unvarying blue. He's breathing steadily, in and out, his lungs unfazed by the entrance of water instead of air. He's naked, nothing between him and the sea. He opens his mouth and tastes salt; he spreads his fingers, feeling the water slide between them, cool and soft.
Then hands slide over his shoulders, soft and cool.
He isn't surprised. He never is, in the dream, because he knows that she's there, the same way that he knows that he's there. How could she not be, after all?
He holds still while the hands slide down his stomach, pinning his arms to his sides as they do. He knows what's coming, and it isn't bad. She rests her hands on his abdomen for a moment, then lets them float downwards to caress him, until he thickens and rises under her touch.
She releases him then, and drifts lazily in front of him, so he can see her for the first time.
He is never surprised that she is made all of water, the same deep blue of the ocean but perhaps a little lighter, as if clear glass slicks all her limbs and defines her. He is never surprised that she wears nothing but her long swirling hair and an inviting smile. But he is always surprised at how beautiful she is. She looks different every time-- sometimes resembling a girl he likes, sometimes a celebrity he thinks is hot, sometimes a statue or a painting, sometimes nothing he's ever seen or ever will see-- but she's beautiful, always, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. His mouth opens at how beautiful she is, and he reaches for her.
She smiles at that, puts her cool hands on his face and kisses his open mouth. She tastes like salt.
He puts his arms around her waist, pulls her tight against him. She feels like a woman, like every woman, her flesh yielding and soft, her skin cool and slick with water. She winds her hands in his hair, her grip surprisingly tight, and they hang together in the endless blue, mouth to mouth, skin to skin, just kissing. Just touching.
Then it goes further. He pulls away from her just enough to bend his head to her breasts, to kiss their smooth slopes and take her nipples in his mouth. She moans and tilts her hips forward, pressing against him. His hands skim her hips, cup her buttocks, slide between her legs and caress there, the only part of the dream he registers as wet, the only part of her where he feels heat. She laughs a little and grips him, stroking, her hand loose at first and then tighter, until he feels he's going to burst.
She always knows when that moment comes. She puts a hand on his shoulder, pushes herself up and sinks down, guiding him inside her with another soft laugh. Within, she is warm, a tropical current of not-quite-living heat that embraces him tightly. He puts his face in her cool shoulder and grips her hips-- she puts her other hand on his shoulders and clings, long smooth fingers digging into his shoulders. She rises and falls like a wave on the sand, ebbing and flowing, every movement curling grace.
He wishes it could go on forever, the two of them entwined, suspended in the endless blue.
It never does. His body tightens inexorably-- she pulls his head back with a hand in his hair and kisses him hard-- he thrusts up into her and comes with a shout into her mouth. She caresses his throat, gently, traces a line down his body. He closes his eyes to better feel her touch and when he opens them, he is staring at his bedroom ceiling, his sheets sticky around his thighs, his hair damp, the taste of salt in his mouth.
It's always the same dream. He doesn't dream it every night.
But oh, how he misses it when he doesn't.