A fragment from a story I started to write a while ago

The original intention was to write it in collaboration with a friend, taking turns to write alternating installments. In the end we fell out of touch - sadly - and the project fell into abeyance. The following was to be the first installment: my own first contribution, which I even may get around to finishing. Re-reading it after an interval of months, I was pleased by the impression of drawled sensual laziness it evokes and though incomplete, I still think it worth sharing here.

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Lying still in the bed, must be a while since you left. Breathing slow, listening to the space around me, clinging to anything that you might have left behind. Looking across the bed to the creases where you were with me last night, watching the cotton peel and fold away as you left when you rose to leave me. Not wanting to move, not daring to erase the traces of your presence. Remembering my stomach still slick with your juices, your gentle imprecations as you slid the plug inside me, my contentment as you filled me up. My loneliness feels so heavy now. Feeling so small and poor, hoping the bed will remind me of the things we achieved in it. Achieved in each other, marking ourselves for good. Our fuckers’ Rubicon.

Not start the day. Not have to get up. Not do anything but listen here to your presence in my life and mouth. Pressing my forehead to your pillow, tracing my nose over the traces of your scents.

Teasing the lube in around me as your greedy arse clamped her way around me, pink muscle stretched hard around me. Your turning your head around, grimacing at the discomfort yet urging me on all the same, demanding your lover’s courage from me.

Twist over, feet down, arms out backwards. I’ll lie here for the day, motionless as I wait for your to return? My heart won’t move without you, all it does is wait, biding its time, for the moment your return. No one else can reach me now, spoilt brat that I am. It’s all your fault, all your doing, all my hoping that you’ll do it me again and again for the rest of my life.

Padding into the kitchen, the sink still with our coffee mugs from this morning. Picking yours up, holding the lipstick prints close to my mouth, hoping to discover something of your mystery from the china that was so close to you, pressing my mouth to the pink marks you left behind. Hours after you’ve left the space, I can finally be exactly where you’ve been. Jealousy of one’s own crockery, yes that must be crazy, holding the mug as I held you, hoping it’ll tell you how good it feels... I think I’ll use your spoon too. Kettlecupboardcoffeesugarfridgemilk, pour. Mug’s hot warmth in my hand, a warmth that doesn’t come form you, strange. Thoughts in my head that don’t come from you, stranger still. I’m still waking up, still feeling you waft away from my head. Needing to start the day, needing to think of anything but you. to reassure myself that i’m not losing my mind, that i can still function when you’re not with me. I can understand George Sanders now.

Fucker’s forensics: the place where I live I scarcely see, somehow it’s no longer mine. It has become the place where you may or may not have faked you first orgasm with me. The place with the table from which i licked your juices, the dresser over which i bent. The sofa where I licked the soles of your feet as you guided me to you. I’ve fucked before, but you reach inside me so far that last night I may finally have succeeded in losing my virginity. Finally traded my innocence for happiness, about fucking time too. About time i was joined to the earth, about time for me to pay homage to your fertility.

No way to make the 08.32 now, looks like I’ll be late. This time, though I’ll have to think up a special excuse...