38

ALICE

I TOUCH MYSELF; I delicately stroke the brushy tuft, the pink of my moist flesh slightly sticky, light mixing with dark. A peony. The invisible stirring is there, right next to me, a subterranean heating of my body. I feel him tight against me. I can feel him even if he's still rotting in the central police station. I'm feeling him more than ever. I slip two fingers inside the moving, half-open silk, moist and pearly, smiling to the stars. I can see my man standing behind me again, his body glued to mine, his body cutting a narrow path between desire and memories, his hands weighing my breasts. I sigh, purr like a well-fed cat. He turns me over, sucks my nipples. I'm drowning. Got to hold myself back and take a deep breath, the little voice inside me says without desire or displeasure. He catches hold of me again, lifts me up, sets me delicately on the bed, holding me by the hips. I lose myself in his arms; his lips run down my spine. He's getting ready to stick his turgescence into the very depths of my flesh. A deep song rises from the earth, floods the skies. His blood is beating and beating in his temples, in his jugular veins, his breast, his forearms. My man crushing me with his full weight, bringing back my knees before he opens them to set, no, to plant his trunk between them and move inside them up and down, up and down, his two legs completely parallel and even squeezed together, the rectangle of his back compressing and relaxing as the breath goes in and out of his chest clinging to mine, his arms now slipped beneath the shade of my armpits. I can feel my wetness swelling until it bursts.