Blog Dis
Her slender throat
2024-06-06
He sees her, a willow-wisp of a young woman passing by him, as he stands at the bus stop waiting for the Number 69 to arrive, late as usual. The penetrating light of the morning washes easily through her print skirt and the outlines of her legs become visible. He cranes his neck backward, watching her walk toward the bus stop, watching as the sun illuminates her form; a shapely and delicate body with pure skin, unblemished by a tan. Onto the bus he gets with her following behind. Stopping at the entrance, he grabs a handrail and watches as she takes her seat, next to an empty seat.
Should he?
Of course he does... sits down beside her, to smell her, to sit next to those legs and that sloping curve to her hips, the slender line of her throat, leading him, pulling him closer. His height allows him a vantage point, further down, and down and down until his eyes are like crawlers, going into the hidden crevice between her breasts. The delicate roundness of her bosom and the freshness of her scent distracts him entirely and before long his eyes make out the shape of one nipple. He bites his lip and turns his head toward her, ready to break the silence, amidst the noise of the bus moving through the city; the sound of grinding acceleration is barely registered by him. But his words do not come. The words would shatter the moment of him absorbing her, despite wanting to make a personal connection.
He dives headlong into a thriving fantasy, alone with his thoughts and lust. His feverish lips are on hers, pressing lightly, kissing and tasting her sweetness of pears and cut wedges of tangy apples. The imagery explodes in his head and his eyes continue to travel the line of her neck, leading lower and lower until his mouth engulfs on nipple. Her soft nipple skin feels like perfection to this tongue. The connection is as natural as water would take to upturned earth, one absorbing the other, meant for one another.
It's almost too much for him, too much wanting of the unwinnable because of her being the unknowable, in this brief moment in time. The mystery girl who wears the short print skirt is now bent over before him, ready for him, offering her most precious gift. There is no time for words, nay he doesn't want them to intrude. The liquid wet of passion shimmers as he looks at the flayed openness of her body, her acceptance of him is real and he prepares himself to enter her.
"Can you move, please?" she requests.
"Oh yeah... sorry," says the nit-wit, lost in his reverie.
"You actually need to step out of your seat, in order for me to get out." she says with a slight smile.
As she stands and holds onto the bar for support, waiting for the bus to come to a full stop, his fingers extend outward, reaching to touch her as she moves abruptly. Her skin is the feeling of morning sunshine, smooth, warm and inviting. The feeling so intensely moves him that he neglects to pay attention to the relevant details; the time, the name of the street and its cross street. Instead, he looks through the window, entranced. She walks down the street, crosses to the other side, and turns the corner. She is gone.
================================
Some call it exploratory writing; where you have no idea of the story's intent, you just know that it could and should go somewhere.
I'll let you decide what he does next.
Should he?
Of course he does... sits down beside her, to smell her, to sit next to those legs and that sloping curve to her hips, the slender line of her throat, leading him, pulling him closer. His height allows him a vantage point, further down, and down and down until his eyes are like crawlers, going into the hidden crevice between her breasts. The delicate roundness of her bosom and the freshness of her scent distracts him entirely and before long his eyes make out the shape of one nipple. He bites his lip and turns his head toward her, ready to break the silence, amidst the noise of the bus moving through the city; the sound of grinding acceleration is barely registered by him. But his words do not come. The words would shatter the moment of him absorbing her, despite wanting to make a personal connection.
He dives headlong into a thriving fantasy, alone with his thoughts and lust. His feverish lips are on hers, pressing lightly, kissing and tasting her sweetness of pears and cut wedges of tangy apples. The imagery explodes in his head and his eyes continue to travel the line of her neck, leading lower and lower until his mouth engulfs on nipple. Her soft nipple skin feels like perfection to this tongue. The connection is as natural as water would take to upturned earth, one absorbing the other, meant for one another.
It's almost too much for him, too much wanting of the unwinnable because of her being the unknowable, in this brief moment in time. The mystery girl who wears the short print skirt is now bent over before him, ready for him, offering her most precious gift. There is no time for words, nay he doesn't want them to intrude. The liquid wet of passion shimmers as he looks at the flayed openness of her body, her acceptance of him is real and he prepares himself to enter her.
"Can you move, please?" she requests.
"Oh yeah... sorry," says the nit-wit, lost in his reverie.
"You actually need to step out of your seat, in order for me to get out." she says with a slight smile.
As she stands and holds onto the bar for support, waiting for the bus to come to a full stop, his fingers extend outward, reaching to touch her as she moves abruptly. Her skin is the feeling of morning sunshine, smooth, warm and inviting. The feeling so intensely moves him that he neglects to pay attention to the relevant details; the time, the name of the street and its cross street. Instead, he looks through the window, entranced. She walks down the street, crosses to the other side, and turns the corner. She is gone.
================================
Some call it exploratory writing; where you have no idea of the story's intent, you just know that it could and should go somewhere.
I'll let you decide what he does next.
