gardens don't tell secrets

It was that time of summer when everything whispered a secret. Or, stood swaying in the light breeze, lips pursed, holding to the hush at the back of the throat, determined that the secret remain so, though tempted by the ecstasy contained in the telling.

Hers was this:

Digging weeds and plucking fresh vegetables from the soil not only helped her to feel grounded and alive, not only made her moist from perspiration, but also summoned: aroused and ready.

She read in a book about people getting back to their roots, back to the ways of their great-great-grandparents, through gardening. She wonders if people of that era also carefully chose the largest cucumber to wash and use as an afternoon companion. And with a laugh, she does, thinking of the coolness touching her entrance, and then the fucking that opens her more with each plunge.

The ride she goes on sheds her outer layers, leaving her in a state of floating and blur. Her head, neck, arms, torso, legs, feet, all collapse into her center, as if she is only a bundle of warm, electric energy right at her vulva and pelvis.

When the heat and momentum implode, muscles clench a harmony and an encore, and she is left feeling the secret on every millimeter of her skin.

my time

When the house quiets mid-day, it is mine.

1.
I remember the first time you had me, the thrill, the freshness, escalator ascending. There was a clumbsy charm that has grown to skilled plunge. I liked the taste of you then, and I like it now. I think about love with you. The tugging, stretching, twisting, tangling. Your thrust in and out, your mouth tearing at my nipples. I marinate in it, the details, the moments of frenzy, of passion, of hushed laughs, of blur.

2.
I pick up the book, and flip to where I left off yesterday. Beauty is being taken to the village to be sold for the summer, paddle and dick as punishment (*). It makes me wet, and wanting.

3.
I start rubbing my clitoris, between my thumb and forefinger, steady and firm, and continue reading. The tension builds.

4.
I let the book meet the floor and two fingers melt into my slippery warmth. I hook them upward and press hard, then soft, then hard. The rubbing of my clitoris quickens and the pressure in my cunt stays solid. Minutes slip by, these ripples of momentum piling one on top of another.

5.
I feel it then. The thick, warm quiet that fills my ears and my skin and the air around my body as the heat inside expands and envelopes me like a blanket or a bubble or a puddle. My heart and breath both quicken and still. The quiver beneath my fingers is at that precise point, the moment just at the edge of the cliff, looking around, poised for the next step into open space. The destination is known and awaiting. Everything fades: in this second, it is only my cunt and the approach.

6.
I step. All life in my body seems to collide as the spasms envelope my fingers and push deeply within, making my breaths become gasps as my body releases in scrumptuous convulsions.

7.
I lie there, legs agape, and allow my eyes to close into a peaceful sleep.

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* Beauty series by Anne Rice.