She was wandering around the flat again. Bored, bored, bored. No – not bored. Restless, maybe? Maybe.

No television to watch, the books read a dozen times at least, the computer on the spritz and calling would be... it would be... it’d just be silly.

How many times have you spoken to him recently?

Well, it’s not the same – not the same as feeling his body on mine, the first, hard hug where we can’t seem to make enough of our body touch each other, where I want to wrap around and be wrapped around with him. Touching his lips with mine, and the feeling like a hunger, like a fire flaring up through every part of my body to touch his, to burn through the clothes, to make our mouths wider, to enter each other even more. All in the first kiss hello.

In the meantime, there were many chores to do. Wash the dishes, clear the filth off the floor. Do some laundry. How long is it since you’ve actually seen the floor of your room, anyway...?

Shut up.

She decided that she would make a start on tidying the room. Physical activity – that was the key. Sorting and piling and filing and clearing. A clear room; a clear head.

Maybe.

That didn’t work, so she went for a walk. Just a walk in the park, and clean, sweet, almost-raining air. Tangible and frustratingly almost thirst-quenching. The smooth texture of the air, its currents against her skin. She walked faster, trying to match the speed of her pumping heart.

She couldn’t run faster than the thoughts. That bench, they whispered. That’s where... Yes, yes, we know about that. Sssh. Pushing herself against the limpid, unhelpfully fragrant moist air, she felt the texture of the trees she saw, and unbidden images of the way the bark would feel against her back, pushed into the firmness of the trunk, almost pulled a moan from her throat. She wet her lips and kept on walking.

But this is the problem. Put something off and it’ll come back at you. Count to ten before losing your temper? Sometimes that just makes the ensuing explosion ten times worse for the frustration of non-instant gratification. Surely, knowing her, she knew this? Well, maybe so – maybe she thought she could last the whole week like this.

Oh dear.

Back in the flat, the contrasting warmth pulled jacket, shoes and socks from her, and, before she knew what she was doing, the jeans were off, and it’s silly to walk around in just a teeshirt, even sillier just in underwear. In short order her breasts were freed to jut warm and slightly moist from her futile exertions outdoors. Her hand brushed across her chest, just above the breasts, a familiar comforting action. Keeping her heart warm, maybe? And then again, her left hand this time, and her right flat across her belly, firm, rolling the flesh there a little. That felt so good (so comforting), she had to have another go. And another. No pretence of simple comforts now, because the left had strayed to the nipples, plucking them like the instruments they were. The air just doesn’t seem to be drying her skin in the way it should, does it? If anything, she’s exuding moisture, becoming... moister.

She licks her lips again, but this time not in an attempt to suppress desire. Oh dear me, no. You see, in her head was the image of her lover, naked, lying on his narrow bed, hand hard to the jutting place, stroking and pulling idly. She fell artfully backwards to the bed (you think this happened in the living room? You can if you want; it happened in the bedroom), overtaken this time by the image of him kneeling over her, hands to himself again, balls cupped under, held firm, stronger strokes along the length of him and that distracted, distracting look on his face. That look always filled her with a dozen ambiguous feelings, at least one of them a form of fear, at least one of them a form of lust so overwhelming it was like a possession. She is leaning upwards to catch the look on his face, legs slightly bent, left elbow back on the bed, right hand still planed to the planes of her silkskin torso, brushing, soothing, smoothing, dipping lower... no... rising higher... maybe... touching the side of her neck where she wishes his kisses would go, where lust rises suddenly and so strong she could scratch ’til the blood came and it wouldn’t assuage the need there.

And now falling backwards, shoulders to the bed, legs hitching higher and wider. She imagined him bent over her again, but this time with his hand to her, in her (she does not touch herself) (yet) and watching her so intently she... oh... augh... it’s a battle – will her heart melt before her body does?

Body slack to the troughs of the bed, right middle finger dipping sly so she wouldn’t notice, she pushed him backwards, flesh firm to flesh now, caught in a net of kisses, sliding and pushing and he lay back on the bed beneath her, strong and submissive. Oh God. This is a fantasy, so anything can be risked. She slid her body along and over his, lightly and heavily, seemingly at random. He groaned and her blood rose towards the sound. Sweetest friction bound them closer and closer together. Kisses rained on every part of the body. Then she stilled him (no – now! Now! No), and slid further down. He was to remain entirely still. And what’s the use of a fantasy boyfriend if he doesn’t know this immediately? He did. He always does...

Her finger’s getting serious now. Hips rise to meet it. Gently now. Slowly.

Legs coiled over his right thigh, she started with fingertips; brushing a pattern of Celtic complexity over his torso and winding slowly outwards along his upper arms. And back again, and down (softly now!) across his belly, skipping across, just skimming the sensitive sides (this is a fantasy, so there is no bad here). Stronger now, more confident, the game changed, tracking fingertips down his thighs, circling his centre, pretending not to notice when on the third pass his hips rose to meet her.

She bestrode him.

Another finger joins the first. Oh. Very fast. No, no – slow and firm now. God.

Lightly pinning his shoulders, she put her lips to the pattern told before and kissed a staccato grid across his body. He bucked gently under her. She was very close to him. So close that if he lost control, if he decided to forget about this holding back business, he could be inside her like a flash of summer lightning. Stabbing.

Ummmmmh. Oh.

She kissed him. It seems like years have gone by since the last one. Slowly and tenderly at first, then more insistently. What was she trying to do? Kill him? There’s only so much a boy can take. Withdrawing from the mesh of mouths, she held him down, shaking her hair free and grinning like the devil, eyes wise with mischief and lust.

Now the tongue. Laying even simpler patterns than her lips had done – a curving line across his collarbone, then up, gnawing and sucking his neck, feeling the moan vibrate through her lips, then down again, a straight line to his straining self and wet slickness on the hot dryness of his unlaved cock.

Oh God, his cock. Three fingers in frantic rhythm. Steady now, complete the story... One hand to her lips, gnawing on her own fingertips, moan layering groan and the bed creaking.

A grunt like a cry and he nearly pushed up into her. She had to admire his control. But what she wanted was his heat in her. (His violence?) (whisper it) She lifted his smooth bum beneath her, let it drop, lifted it, let it drop, looked up at him. A groan (an assent?), and an answering motion, delicate but strong. Feeding off him, feeding him. His fingers tangled in her hair and the other hand gripped the bed. One hand to steady her and the other now finding the length of him, stroking him, pulling him in contrary rhythm. His thighs spasmed and his throat gave out something like a mewl. But now control was forgotten. She wanted to come, and she wanted him inside her. Now.

Now.

Jesus!

Sliding up again (remember this is a fantasy), and he pulled her head up to him, kissed her hard. Natural law sighed with relief as they desisted resisting and locked together.

Oh!

Plunging in and out and the wetness, softness, hardness, groans, cries, fat, dark sparks like

She starts to come.

the culmination of everything – every book you’ve ever read, every story, every poem, every song.

She sighs.

And now on top of her, he pounds and pounds, hands either side of her, body like a jackhammer, crying out, and she

She comes again.

clings to him as though they could become even closer, more one flesh, more one soul.

And again.

He... is... She... They. The indescribable come down and made in flesh. A burst of light like the ending of worlds. A glory of song – the perfect chord. Two wet, hard-soft, hot, panting bodies locked like they were never meant to be anything else but this one rock and moan and laughcry together.

She stops when she is sure there is no more to be had and gets up in search of some food. And maybe a shower.