There is sunlight on my bed. It touches my naked legs and I notice that it doesn't stray to where she is stretched out in the dark. Strange that I am all lit up and she is not. I am so used to the thick dark of her shadow. Her beauty obliterates me on any ordinary day.
We are side by side and we have only ever touched when there has been someone else with us. I have reached for her, only vaguely distracted by some boy on top of me. I have snuggled up beside her, feeling the rhythms of her hips, swaying, as she is entered by some other man. Once, in front of a video camera, I kissed her and couldn't seem to pull away even when the director yelled cut.
I watch her when she is walking. I see the sunlight outline her legs under her white skirts. I watch her sit in front of the television with her knees lolling wide and a little damp line at the centre of her pristine white knickers. My knickers are never white. One moment against my skin and they tan to the colour of my nipples.
I admire her, I am envious of her, I want to be her and I want to fuck her.
My skin is heated in a sun pattern. We are both wearing buttoned shirts and knickers, mine a dirty grey, hers pure white. I settle my knee against hers. She doesn't shift away. My hand is close to her buttons and I touch one with my finger. I struggle it through the tight enclosure of the button hole. When it is open I sneak my finger into the space, feather it back and forth. Maybe she feels the gentle rustle of it so close to the swell of her breast.
She doesn't move. She doesn't shift away when I ease my fingers upward to where another button holds the delicate fabric closed across the generous proportions of her breasts.
Her bra is white. It is delicately flowered. I ease her shirt away and her bra is revealed, thick and delicate as an orchid, her flesh rising above the albino petals, squeezed together by the positioning of her arms.
I unbutton my own shirt. My own bra is black. My breasts are darker than hers. When I shuffle closer to her chest I gaze down at the inconsistencies of our flesh. Her breasts are pale and delicate and scented. Mine are too generous, too dark, too oily fleshed like some slit open fish packed into too tight packaging. I ease the cups of my bra down and there are my brown nipples, enlarged aureole, the tight nibs clenched at their peaks. There are several dark hairs at the edges of the nipples and I wished I had thought to pluck them away before revealing myself to her.
She still hasn't moved. I look to her face, heavy lidded eyes, gazing down towards those now erect stray hairs. She hasn't made me stop but she hasn't invite my attentions either.
I will show her what to do. I will lead by example. I clutch one of my breasts in my fist and raise it out of the loose droop of my bra cup. I bend my head towards it and I lick the nipple so that she can see how the flesh grows taut and twitchy. The nipple aching out towards the touch of tongue like an accusing finger. I take it all into my mouth, I suckle, a show for her, a demonstration. She could lean down and lick it too, alongside my own mouth. She could replace my attentions with her own. I lift both of my breasts towards her mouth, so close that her breathing disturbs the fine pale hairs that line the swell of them. If she were to yawn she would swallow a nipple, but her mouth remains firmly closed. She sighs and she settles closer to me. I feel her hips brush mine. My knee is caressed by the fine swell of her calf. She has raised her legs.
My hands release my breasts back into their holdings. My fingers travel the swell of my stomach, my less than perfectly flat stomach and touch the elastic of my knickers. Her crotch is somewhere down here. I stretch my index finger out and here is the tight press of white cotton, slightly damp but perfectly laundered.
She nestles closer, pushes her crotch against my fingers, closes her eyes and settles where she is within reach of my shivery finger. It is all I can do not to tear away the pretty white cotton, but I restrain myself. I ease my finger under the elastic. I notice that she is wet. I wonder whether it would be too much to shuffle down her body and taste the nectar. My mouth is watering at the thought of it. Her breath is sweet, her skin is sweet, her hair is sweet. I am hoping that her cunt will add a savory edge to the palate that is otherwise all pales and pinks and sugary pastel hues. I sneak my fingers into the nest of fine cropped hair. I think she must cut it with scissors. It is so fine and neat and manicured like expensive lawn. I open her like I have opened her buttons, easing my fingers under the delicate fabric of her skin, fluttering my finger back and forth, making space for the rude invasion of my own flesh. She opens to me, moist and soft and I imagine that she will be sea-shell pink like the inside of some spidery white shell fish. My tongue is itching for mussels, oysters, pippis.
The phone rings. She opens her eyes and stretches and my finger is abandoned to the harsh cold Sunday afternoon air. I shift back away from the darkness into the spotting of sunlight. She rolls off my king-sized bed and I hear her little bird voice from the next room as she answers the phone.
"Hello? No, nothing much. Now's good."
I am nothing much. I sniff my finger, lick it. Sweet. She is sweet. There is no hint of a base note. She is all sugar. I shuffle over into the darkness where I smell her sweet sweat and perfume on the pillow and I curl my damp finger around a single, abandoned, blond hair.
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