the boy
by K. Wyse
The boy lies sprawled along the length of the single bed, his six foot
frame (give or take an inch) barely fits between the head and foot
boards made of varnished dark wood. And in the dim half-light of the
desk lamp that sits obediently though out of place on the cream
carpeting, the velvet night draws sophisticated angled planes from his
youthful face as the earthy brown of the wood throws mellow shadows upon
his skin, accentuating his pale glow.
He’s not ready to go to sleep yet, though he looks like he might slip
out of reality’s consciousness at any moment -- long, feminine eye-
lashes hovering just above his cheekbones, his eyes still open just that
fraction wide. No words are needed, not now. So he just smiles at me --
slow, sexy, and inviting; one arm holding open the doona covering,
welcoming me into the fold.
What can I do but feel my insides cave at his sweet mouth and my knees
buckle as I awkwardly, and somewhat shyly climb into the shelter offered
by him, all the while feeling the electric tingles that race just under
my skin. His male scent wraps me up and spins my head, making me
suddenly glad how small the bed is, and how close we must touch so that
neither will fall off the edges.
It is a beautiful thing the way our bodies complement in melodious
harmony; with all the right curves melting into all the right valleys.
My lips sit comfortably upon his bare shoulders which are so well
muscled and strong, that my instincts are incited to bite him ever so
gently, and then lick the wound before indulgently sucking on his skin
so that I may bruise him and mark him as mine.
He moves away before I can do any of that; reading my mind, my
intentions before I’m even aware of my desires. So now there is a space
between our bodies, where the cold evening air rushes to fill, eliciting
goose-bumps on both of us, though mine are hidden beneath a light cotton
shirt, and he seems not to notice the sudden chill.
I place my hand upon his chest, fingers entwining with the light brown
curls adorning his nakedness. With fascination I stroke the soft down of
his hair, and each strand is so fine and silky that I wonder if I could
steal them from him and weave myself a handkerchief of his scent. My
gaze moves down as the porcelain glow of his skin wakes the poet in me,
my eye catching on the perfect angle of his hip as it juts ever so
slightly above the low waistline of his pyjama pants. My thumb moves of
its volition to rub it, if only for the sensation of firm bone beneath
soft skin. It is this intimacy that makes him reach for his own cotton
shirt, not the cold of the distance between our bodies. How sexy he is
in his shyness.
The boy is such a gentleman, for he touches me not, though the lingering
of his fingertips upon the bare skin of my neck tells me of his wishes
for exploration. Already he waits at the edge of the collar, stroking
the place where the neck dips and changes course to become the shoulder.
But he reels himself in, forgetting his wants, denying the urge to slip
his hands under my shirt and encircle my waist with his large hands,
palms against fluttering ribcage and fingernails grazing the underside
of my breasts. Instead, he contents himself to simply stroking a stray
hair from my forehead and tucking it behind my ear.
I snuggle up to him as I always do, my head practically falls into the
crook of his arm as if I belong nowhere but there. And I sigh a little
sigh -- wistful, satisfied, happy, longing. He says not a thing because
he knows, and he lets me know with a loving peck on the top of my head
that he understands but that we had both agreed to wait. I sigh again in
acknowledgment, snuggling further into his arms, his chin resting
against my head and lie there. It’s going to be a long night.
~fin
(
geocities.com/wyse_k)