Me, thinking of you
I need you.
Simple words to think, to say, but I mean it. I'm sat in the window-seat on the train, the trees and the houses and the supermarkets blurring along as I leave my work and studying behind. I'm trying to breathe deeply. I'm trying to let go of the stress.I'm trying to be calm,but that deep, chained ache of desire is rising up and it feels so good and it hurts.
You've been cold to me, you handsome devil. You aren't cruel but you have your games, and you reserve the right to play them. And you often do. I want you more than once every now-and-then. I love it when we're alone together and I think you know that, and I think you enjoy it. I suppose you probably have other women. That's okay- why not? We're so young, life is just beginning and who wants to restrict themselves.
But I wish that I was at least your favourite. People tell me I'm very pretty- they do, really, and not I don't think it's always just them being nice, because strangers have said it. I'm not going to be a superstar model, too petite for one thing, but I work out, I eat well, I'm neat and tidy and hygienic. And when I look in the mirror I can sometimes see why someone might want me. And other times I can't and those are bad days.
I give up on reading my book. The characters' are too pained and I'm too wound it for that, their angst hurts me too. It's pointless, but I'd rather think about you. I remember when you surprised me once- you knew when I was coming back from a day out and you were there at Leeds station, and you waved at me as I got off the train like it was the most normal thing. Then we walked so quickly to your place and you undressed me without a word and did all of those lovely, kind things that you do with your hands and your lips and your tongue, and I wanted it to go on forever and forever.
That was what, four months ago? I've seen you how many times since..... I try to count them up in my head but have to resign to guessing. Probably about fifteen times... And almost every time has been fun- more than fun, and you've made me feel things, and you've said how amazing I am and how much I excite you, and I've seen that heavy lust in your eyes before we touch. But you always seem so satisfied afterwards, and for such a long time. It's always me that wants more. It's always your lips pulling away from mine.
The conductor glances at my ticket and nods, and continues down the train. It's half-empty. People are on their phones, listening to music, reading The Metro. An older couple are discussing something- intently but warmly. I like the thought that they're debating their next holiday.
I'd like to take you on holiday, I think abruptly. That would be perfect- get you away from everyone else. Somewhere remote, like the Scottish Highlands. Is that weird? I don't want to hold you hostage, lock you in a cellar, or even more seriously- marry you. I honestly don't. But I would like to get some more of you, while we're still carefree. Relatively carefree.
The musings ebb away and I'm left with just the feelings. I think of your hands gripping my slender waist from behind, bending me over, my elbows resting on the bed. My soaked-readiness after our foreplay. The invasive pushing, stretching sensation as you push into me. Your fingers of one hand in my mouth as you take me.
I come around with a bit of a start. It's the stop before mine. A man, probably forty-something, sitting on the other side appears to have been staring at me and he looks away quickly. I look down and can see my nipples poking hard at my white blouse, which is a bit on the sheer side at the best of times. I take a few steady breaths and try to dispel that warming need inside me, that will to be with you, to have you inside me and have you give me what I want, all that I want, as hard as you can.
I toy with my phone but I don't text you. It shouldn't always be me first. That lonely first step should be shared out. I have some dignity still. Even if I do need to change my underwear.
Simple words to think, to say, but I mean it. I'm sat in the window-seat on the train, the trees and the houses and the supermarkets blurring along as I leave my work and studying behind. I'm trying to breathe deeply. I'm trying to let go of the stress.I'm trying to be calm,but that deep, chained ache of desire is rising up and it feels so good and it hurts.
You've been cold to me, you handsome devil. You aren't cruel but you have your games, and you reserve the right to play them. And you often do. I want you more than once every now-and-then. I love it when we're alone together and I think you know that, and I think you enjoy it. I suppose you probably have other women. That's okay- why not? We're so young, life is just beginning and who wants to restrict themselves.
But I wish that I was at least your favourite. People tell me I'm very pretty- they do, really, and not I don't think it's always just them being nice, because strangers have said it. I'm not going to be a superstar model, too petite for one thing, but I work out, I eat well, I'm neat and tidy and hygienic. And when I look in the mirror I can sometimes see why someone might want me. And other times I can't and those are bad days.
I give up on reading my book. The characters' are too pained and I'm too wound it for that, their angst hurts me too. It's pointless, but I'd rather think about you. I remember when you surprised me once- you knew when I was coming back from a day out and you were there at Leeds station, and you waved at me as I got off the train like it was the most normal thing. Then we walked so quickly to your place and you undressed me without a word and did all of those lovely, kind things that you do with your hands and your lips and your tongue, and I wanted it to go on forever and forever.
That was what, four months ago? I've seen you how many times since..... I try to count them up in my head but have to resign to guessing. Probably about fifteen times... And almost every time has been fun- more than fun, and you've made me feel things, and you've said how amazing I am and how much I excite you, and I've seen that heavy lust in your eyes before we touch. But you always seem so satisfied afterwards, and for such a long time. It's always me that wants more. It's always your lips pulling away from mine.
The conductor glances at my ticket and nods, and continues down the train. It's half-empty. People are on their phones, listening to music, reading The Metro. An older couple are discussing something- intently but warmly. I like the thought that they're debating their next holiday.
I'd like to take you on holiday, I think abruptly. That would be perfect- get you away from everyone else. Somewhere remote, like the Scottish Highlands. Is that weird? I don't want to hold you hostage, lock you in a cellar, or even more seriously- marry you. I honestly don't. But I would like to get some more of you, while we're still carefree. Relatively carefree.
The musings ebb away and I'm left with just the feelings. I think of your hands gripping my slender waist from behind, bending me over, my elbows resting on the bed. My soaked-readiness after our foreplay. The invasive pushing, stretching sensation as you push into me. Your fingers of one hand in my mouth as you take me.
I come around with a bit of a start. It's the stop before mine. A man, probably forty-something, sitting on the other side appears to have been staring at me and he looks away quickly. I look down and can see my nipples poking hard at my white blouse, which is a bit on the sheer side at the best of times. I take a few steady breaths and try to dispel that warming need inside me, that will to be with you, to have you inside me and have you give me what I want, all that I want, as hard as you can.
I toy with my phone but I don't text you. It shouldn't always be me first. That lonely first step should be shared out. I have some dignity still. Even if I do need to change my underwear.
7 years ago
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