Sunday, May 17, 2009

Squim

Walking in, I shut the door, closed the blinds, and we stripped and ripped away the blankets from the twin bed in the spare room. I forced her on her back and buried my head between her legs. She writhed. She drenched me, my face soaked in cum.

Five hours. Spring air blowing past and into my palm. Sun was out; it was eighty degrees. My music was loud and consuming. Ancient green trees cast long shadows over the road. The road curves, the car leans and tilts, and the water stretches on to our right for miles into the Sound. She laughs.

Fire, in its place, the corner of a living room, and her before it - sprawled, nude, exhausted, flawless; womanly curves in a foreign space of light and shadow.

Shoot. Forgot the steaks. We leave the resort. Sunlight cascades across the water and through the tops of trees in a sea of evergreen. Eastward, to the Indian casino, the road lead on, but all they had were panini's. Another ten minutes, the clerk said, and we'd be in Sequim - "Squim", it sounded like; it was a funny word. Squim. Squim. Squidy-Squim. We giggled and Squimed and fetched the steaks.

It was the fourth time and the blankets were soaked and flesh was raw and her flesh was hot and flushed, and I collapsed on the bed to her right; the fire had made the room so balmy. I needed to open the sliding glass door. Cold water.

She hates the pictures in the room. They're too bland, too institutional.

Coffee. Orange juice. Breakfast with all the things I like. Her in a transparent red nighty that barely covers her ass. Sunrise on the porch. The light is blinding. We talk about poly.

I greased the grill with a touch of olive oil and turned on the gas. She poured the Merlot. Spices: salt, pepper, garlic. A little onion. The steaks: lean, juicy, savory - asparagus, she told me, takes three years to grow. I didn't know that.

Grabbing my bag, I left my bedroom and snagged my camera because I didn't want to forget it. I tucked it into my travel case. I had everything I needed - finally, the vacation can begin. I sat down at my PC and prepared to get a map. "I already have the directions," she said, and held up the printout. She smiled, big white teeth flashed between fully ruby lips. "Let's go." Enticing.

Sunday. 5:30 the morning. The bed's headboard strikes the wall. Repetitively. I wonder if the people above us could hear that? And at 6:30, hmm - I wonder if they heard _that_?

Fuck - cops everywhere on the road today, but KnightRider is tailing my ass and wants me to go faster. He follows, closes, and backs off, then does it again. And again. He makes me nervous. A curb and turn-out lane. I pull over and let Kitt go past me. Young guy, early twenties, thick sunglasses, and a fast car. He is alone. He doesn't see what I see in the road; he doesn't feel what I feel in the drive. He is ignorant of the moment. His dark sunglasses peer at me, a void.

She reads. I write. It's now 9:04am. What to do... what to do? We will Squim.

s1m0n
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