About This Time of Year

June 1, 2014

Time – as the oft used cliché goes – flies.  Never more so than when recalling the thrills and ecstasy of an intense past love affair.  For receptiveness and sanity’s sake we usually train our minds to, over time, reduce the frequency with which they wander back to the details of past lovers.  Pining for the past is a folly neither useful nor attractive and as the grown adults we are… well, we set the folly aside and move on to new phases of our lives.

exquisite lovers

Some memories remain as vivid as the moment.

Yet still there will be those people, perhaps just one person, and experiences such that when we do remember them – allowed memory or not – the details and sense of them remains as vivid and intense as they were at the time of knowing.

I feel similarly about writing.  I have never been remotely prolific, but in this most recent phase of life writing creatively has become an activity as sporadic as the emergence of Mayfly, though less regularly timed.  So in remembering this certain woman and events about this time of year, remembering a particular birthday, this connection to writing seems appropriate.  You see much of my writing on this blog, I would say the best of it, was written for her and about her.  So today I’m writing again, remembering her, with a glint in my eye, a spring in my step and a gently wicked smile on my lips.


About This Time Of Year

About this time of year there are these thoughts, these images, scents and textures vividly re-conjured:  a silk soft, copper bright, vivacious red ringlet feathered across my skin; a flash of jade-green glinting wickedly at me as I press from above; a kiss, supple and sweet and laden with intent.


A door was opened to see a treat of fantasy on that evening.  Nerves untold, perhaps shown, but none the less overcome with gusto, filled the room.  Flowers expected, but bold and beautiful enough to flicker a heartbeat or two, lay upon the large tautly made bed, cream and crimson.  Scents began to mingle.  Sharing in a champagne moment perhaps I glanced upon a furtive kiss and touch of exhibitionism.  As fingers played through hair and across skin, a dress unclasped and dropped to the floor, I sat captive in delight.  A touch and moan commanded from the bed, “Watch.”

While fingertips played and eyes tormented with immodest glee I yearned to be unclasped.  But more play was to be had.  With rising girth my eyes demanded the taste of where fingers travelled and caresses lay.  Two pairs of hands, two pairs of lips, nipples, necks, stomachs, thighs all attentively and knowingly teased.  The show was for me, but she imagine more than I could see, that flagrant daydream flooding her mind to peak.

“So cruel.” My lover signalled my release.  But first a straddled kiss to ensure I was ready.

For a moment my nerve faltered at the realisation of the dream.  With giggling lust she returned it to me, arms and legs grasping to a frolic.  Vibrant curls spread out across soft sheets her eyes an smile betrayed the potency of her excitement at my touch.  I would devour her.  Having learnt just a few of the secrets to her pleasure, with fingers, lips and tongue I danced and delved, not settling until her finger clawing cries at my shoulders, neck and head, subsided.

Then came our secret partner’s turn.  Blonde and slight with grace and beauty, we both enjoyed the forbidden unfamiliarity of her.  But my most carnal joy could not help but come from glazing upon my better known lover in her revelling.  Playfully precaution was rolled onto me.  Riding, rolling, turning from one’s dominance of excitement to the other’s.  The time in my mind is mingled, it’s length almost unfathomable to me now.  What stays vibrantly in memory are the looks, sounds, tastes, the grasping of thighs.  Most all of these images remain of her, my once upon a time redhead lover who played this fantasy for me on my birthday.

So about this time of year I forgive myself the indulgence of this ecstatic, perhaps dangerous memory.  For all that’s in my future, the knowledge of such experience might bring a little more ecstasy to lovers new.


The heiress I cannot forget - I'll always care for you Miss Laine.

Not quite her, incidentally.


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