Your Weekly Dose

I sleep like the dead beside you, like I'm by myself. Except when you shift position and your pheromones seep into my delta waves. Body comes alive, skin tingles like a homing device. I wiggle back across the bed, into your bulk. A soft animal body and its rooting. The press and heat of skin on skin up my spine soothes me back under.

There are a million things you're supposed to be doing right now. This errand for your mom, that project due for work. You said you'd drop some thing, useless probably, off at your best friend's house. You're not doing a single fucking one of them.

I twist your nipples.

"What you have to do again?"

You moan.

I've worn a low v shirt and no bra for a reason. Hoping it'll give you ideas. It may have been that, it may have been the way I straddled you on the splintery kitchen chair and pushed your face between my breasts.

You do have ideas.

A finger along the edge of the shirt, you push it down as you lift my breast up over it; the same on the other side. The nipples almost touching each other . A trembling tongue. Reaching, flicking. You hold my wrists together against my ass as I strain.

You've gone realistic on me tonight. Pulled the cocoa brown dick out of your boxers, told me to get on my knees, close my eyes, keep my mouth open. Wait. I can feel you moving closer and away, strain with my tongue to get at you as you drift off out of range again.

You left before I was ready for you to go.

Now. My clothes, my skin, my hair: they all smell like you and my endocrine system is releasing something that must be poison, it feels so fucking good.

I flop on the bed when we get home from the club. I don't want it.

I'm tired, it's late, it's been a long week.

Yeah, you say. Apart. Run a finger along my instep.

Doesn't matter, I say. That's just the what are you-

Because you've got your tongue out where your finger was. Slipping into the cutaway side of my killer pumps, little flicks, a long flat lick.

I lie back down again, silent with my eyes closed. You hold my ankle tight.

After you left I felt wrung out and loose, at loose ends, not quite sure what to do with myself. You were something else, your hands and your tongue, the words, your look. I sat and stared out the window. Found myself standing in the middle of the bedroom, surveying the disaster, a hand cupped around my bruised cunt. A daydreamy fuzz over my skin.

Both my hands are on your chest, the mounds of my thumbs resting on the tops of your breasts where they spill up out of your bra. In one movement: my left slides down, over the smooth lace, your nipple against the centre of my palm; my right slides up, up your windpipe, where my fingers count your tracheal ridges. I cup your chin and push up. The expanse of all that smooth taut skin, delicious.

Side-by-side on stools we sip our milkshakes. Talk idly. I fidget. Hook my leg through yours, spin you to me.

I was sad when the bruises faded.

For three days, I pressed them. To feel the nip of your crooked front teeth again, like the blunt tip of my index finger might trigger that chemical high you gave me.

At work, on the bus, waiting, wherever.

I'd do it.

A press, the small rush, the crash, withdrawal.