Thursday, 17 May 2007

The Tower

This arrived from the other side of the pond. It is written by a friend who gave me this piece for my blog. It is immensely beautiful, it sings with a poetic voice I admire. It is a little more explicit than the things you usually find here but I am sure you don't mind. Read and enjoy!

A seacoast park, on a windy, almost chilly day. You have dressed in earth tones: long skirt, blouse, sweater. You have arrived on schedule, just before sunset, just time enough to climb the long, circular staircase to the top of the Observation Tower. The vista is breathtaking. Best of all, you are alone here, so high up, leaning over the rail that encloses the roofless deck. You tuck your unruly breeze-blown tresses behind your ears.

Far below you, people stroll, singly, in couples or groups. All eyes are on the setting sun, the brilliant jewel colors and golden streaks of the clouds.

Entranced, you barely hear the footsteps on the stairs. You feel a mild, unreasonable disappointment at having to share the view. You straighten up slightly, grip the rail, and determinedly stare forward. You are, in your mind's eye, the very portrait of impenetrable solitude, offering no opening for introductions or idle observation.

The light steps pause. You are grateful that this interloper respects your privacy, your priority, and seeks only, like yourself, to enjoy the magical, privileged view, undisturbed and undisturbing.

Two minutes of reverie pass. Three. You realize that the stranger has not taken some unobtrusive place at the railing. All is yet silence. But your sixth sense, or a subtle sound, or even a hint of warmed, moving air, tells you the stranger stands immediately behind you. This brings a twinge of disquiet. You drop your eyes to the ground, see the people strolling, pointing, and are reassured.


Strong hands grip you by the flanks, just above your hips. You gasp, but remain still, mute. The touch is firm and insistent, but not quite rough, a hold you can break. You consider options, angles, as the importunate hands remain, calm, as if by right, on your waist. Your unease mounts. But oddly, you are reminded of being in the arms of an experienced dancer, a man confident in leading his inexperienced partner in intricate steps, slow or fast. The hands relax a bit. You relax a bit. But what…

A gentle, steady force presses you, ever so slightly, to your left. You resist for a moment, keep your footing, spread your legs for balance. Then – unthinkable -- you yield, bending stiffly and ever so slightly from the waist. The sure hands guide you back to plumb, then impel you, still insistent and gentle, to the right. You follow, less unwillingly, as the hands guide you in a slow rocking arc ... yes, like a dance, a softly swaying dance.

The man – not quite a stranger anymore, is he? -- takes a half step forward. You feel his shoulders pressing against yours, his chest brushing your back. He is swaying with you, rocking side to side, slowly, to the rhythm of – of what? The setting sun? The rising moon?

He guides your waist gently forward and back, now left and right --- a full circle. You release the rail, drop your arms to your side. His strong hands and firm back hold you up. The sun kisses the sea. The light is red, yellow, the shadows long... He reverses directions, pauses, speeds, slows. In spite of yourself, you unlock your knees, giving yourself wholly to the undulating improvisations of this unseen dance partner. Do you know, or do you merely hope, that …

You feel his breath, warm, on your right ear. He is crooning in a low voice, or perhaps whispering. The sound is urgent. The dance continues. But now the comforting hands glide, inch by inch, smoothly forward. Clasp your waist, fingertips interlaced in front of you. You place your hands over his. He pulls you close. The dance continues. You feel his broad chest against your back, his knees behind your knees, thighs against your buttocks. Still swaying.

His left hand returns to its first post, gripping your left hip. But his right, slowly, smoothly, slides under your sweater. You stiffen, take his wrist in your trembling hand. "Shh, shhh," he whispers, warm breath in your ear. You release him, place your hands back on the railing. He untucks your blouse, and his right hand slips under, caressing your belly, finding your breast, cupping it tenderly. He pulls you even closer to him, still swaying slowly. His left hand has already found your left breast, his smooth flat palm circling, barely brushing your hardening nipple. Now his hands lift your breasts appraisingly, testing their weight. And now, fiercely, he clasps you to himself. A rude prod from behind tells you how hard he is, how very hard. You feel his erection's radiant heat like a second sun. He arches back, away from you, but not quite completely breaking contact. Is this a hint, a warning, a reminder, invitation, boast?

Now his right hand turns, still flesh to your flesh, fingertips probing the waistband of your slacks. He leans forward, and you lean with him, bending slightly at the waist. His fingertips trace the top of your knickers, then glide underneath, inexorably downward. His hand cups your sex, gently, like a nesting bird. Lingers there...

You feel his left hand untuck the back of your blouse, then slide under slacks and knickers to cup your smooth bottom. This hand is restless. It clenches, kneads, presses, circles. Once, just once, it is pulled back, smacks you gently. His fingers clamp down again, open, close, pinching and palpating. The heat of this hand, the heat of your bottom under his hand, spread down your legs and through your pelvis. You imagine, no you see, the white outline his handprint would leave, will leave on your blushing cheek.

The left hand now probes forward, between your legs, joining briefly with the right. Dexterous fingers part, finding, flicking, stroking your clitoris. You feel one, two, three left digits probe your opening from behind, teasingly testing, dowsing for moisture, finding and transferring it to fingers still busying about your swollen pearl. Then, one, two, three, to the knuckles, to the hilt, they enter you. He enters you. He is in you, circling, back and forth, side to side. Just as your bodies' swaying dance continues, his hands holding your sex like reins, guiding you side to side, forward, back, around and around. You reach your arms behind, clasp him by the waist, pulling him, if possible, closer still. In your ear, you feel rather than hear urgent, indistinct, syllables: endearments, threats, promises, poetry… some old tune, or ….

His commanding hands dance, glide, guide your dance. You follow his lead, from twilight into darkness.


Simon Kade said...

That story certainly urges one to seek a tango. Outstanding entry; writing top notch. Thanks for sharing.

Anonymous said...

Thanks for posting this Janice, it was a lovely post, so well written.