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Blind Love

The first time I felt you, we were in a crowd, drinking. We were deafened and caressed, by music and laughter, smoky air brushing my cheek,  a kaleidoscope of smells, sweat,  perfume and earwax and leather and many other things it would take me too long to tell. It was dark.

You spoke into my ear and I felt your sharp hair tickle my lobe like a forest of needles.  Your voice hummed right through me, vibrating from my skull to my thighs.  You said – I forget what you said, I hardly heard it, instead I heard your longing, your uncertainty, your braggadocio. I smelled that you were a little drunk, on vodka and orange, and that you hadn’t washed in two days, maybe three. I smelled also that you worked outdoors, the grass and birdshit still clinging to you, fresh from the mower. I felt you tremble with embarrassment and faint hope. I said, my garden’s a mess. You laughed. How do you know?  you said. You’ll see.

The next time, you pulled weeds as I lay in the warmth of the morning and stretched and smiled. You sang Michael Jackson and your voice cracked on the high bits and you laughed and threw blades of grass at me that landed on my upturned face like butterflies. When you were finished, you got us lemonade from the fridge and held it to my lips, cold and sweet, and then with your lemonade lips you kissed me, with your grassy, sun-warmed, sugary tongue you stroked my mouth, with your hand you oiled my leg with cool man sweat.  Then you stopped, your hand on my breast, burning me.

I put my hands to your jeans, over the stiff hot cloth, up to the zip, read it like braille, came to the full stop of your belt buckle, ran a finger inside, where your skin was hot and smooth.  I sat up and raised your shirt and sniffed at your stomach and chest, tickling my nose with the rough hairs, almost long enough to plait. You held my head and stroked my hair till it pulled.

I felt your underarms like soft piles of moss, the bones of your chest and neck framing your heat-prickled skin, your beard fur all the way down from your ears, your lips that bit my fingers as they passed, your hair long and a little matted from sweat and twigs, your back like a long bow, back to your belt and the curve of your dick, a branch bent and ready to spring.  You knew what I wanted.

You unclasped it, let it drop. I listened to you opening yourself up, like a present for me.  I shut my eyes and opened my mouth and held out my head, and it was like your kiss, only fuller and richer. I tasted you, I heard you liking it, held your butt as you moved and swayed, felt every centimetre of you under my tongue, felt your roots trembling, felt your thick wetness already collecting in my mouth.

You said, pull up your dress, can we? And I said, don’t talk while I’m eating, and you came with a rush and a shake like a wet dog, all over my nose.  And you said, oh I’m sorry, and I just laughed, feeling the sticky sap caking in the heat, and put my arms around your neck, and hugged you down to me.  You were my fragrant, flowering, thick-trunked tree and I wanted to plant you in the middle of my messy garden, to grow with me in the lovely darkness.

About turnipsforbreakfast

Rose has two blogs, www.butimbeautiful.wordpress.com, and www.turnipsforbreakfast.wordpress.com. Enjoy!

10 responses »

  1. Hmm. Such an interesting concept. Well-penned. Tender to my heart.

    Reply
  2. It’s hard to write erotica without resorting to cliche, but you’ve “pulled it off,” turning a blow job into a rich sensory experience. I’m impressed!

    Reply
  3. This is really skilled erotic writing. You turned a sexual encounter into an experience brought to life and made real for the reader by involving all the physical senses, the way it actually happens in real life. Vivid descriptions and very well done.

    Reply
    • Thanks Chris, you say such lovely things. I guess when you’re really involved in a sexual experience, you’re involved in it on all levels. Did you pick up that the woman protagonist is blind?

      Reply
      • At the risk of appearing to be dense, I’m going to be honest and admit that as much as I was so thoroughly immersed in your story, I never realized that the woman was blind, until you mentioned it here in your reply.

        BUT…My only excuse is that when I read this the first time, I’d been up all night long, without any sleep, and at 6:30 am here in our time zone, I was so sleep deprived that my eyes saw your words in motion and swimming around on my monitor screen as I tried to read them. But I was determined to keep on reading, because I knew that this was exceptional writing, and absolutely worth my struggle to read it.

        A certain irony here, in that I was nearly blind myself, as I was trying to read your story about the vividly intense sensory experience of a woman who is blind…

        But your non visual imagery was so skillfully conveyed in your writing, that even though I missed a major detail, I still felt the full physical and emotional force of the sensory experience you so artfully and masterfully created.

        Now, at around 2:50 pm in the afternoon here today, I’m well rested with clear vision, and I just read your story again. This time I could see the numerous and subtly effective indications that make it clear the woman is blind, but all her other senses are intensely heightened to compensate for her loss of sight.

        Now I’m twice as impressed with your story, in which you had the talent to convey all that this blind woman was experiencing, through her sense of smell, her hearing, ability to taste, and to intensely feel by touching, and then herself being touched.

        I think this is one of the best posts I’ve ever read here, or anywhere else. I don’t give out this kind of praise as casually as taking the spare change out my pants pockets and tossing it on top of my dresser. I say it because you gave me a rare and excellent experience in reading, and what I say I genuinely mean, because your writing inspired it.

      • thanks Chris, I’ll genuinely treasure those remarks.

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