Finis? (18+ only)

For my Sunday story, I have some flash fiction for you today. It’s a soulful little post, written very much as a companion to The Invisible Lover and Seven Seconds. It may not be to everyone’s taste, but it’s an important little piece within a larger framework – at least to me. 

As you know, I’m always open to comments and feedback, so be my guest. Next week: something a bit sexy – and cheerier – involving an ice cube or two! And, of course, the next instalment of Love Slave coming up midweek…

Happy reading! x

I watch the sun as it seeps through the gaps in the blinds. You didn’t quite close them. I stare at it, trying to capture in my memory every remaining moment of the night, as if it’s the last time I will ever encounter the moonlight in its present form. As the hours have ticked by, it’s been creating a silver outline against the silhouette of your shoulder, your hip, the outer muscular curve of your leg, as you lay, tired after our fuck, exhausted from the nonsense that came later. I’ve spent the night with my bare form pressed against your back, my foot entwining my leg in yours, my hand reaching through the shimmering glow that the moon cast. Did you feel me there? Everything was all right then, as I reached over and encased your shoulder, lay my head against your back, and prayed that you’d turn and press your lips to mine. That you’d blow tender kisses over the top of my ear and into my hair as your hands roam my body, teasing my nipples on the way to seeking the dampness between my thighs, and draw the heady scent of our combined juices that run from inside me up to your lips, before you kiss me, hard and long.

But the sun is bright this morning, harsh, creating a line drawing of prison bars across the rise and fall of the bed and capturing your naked form within them. My eyes hurt; it’s the lack of sleep. So, you’re in prison, then? Is that what it feels like, here with me, my cum still surrounding your cock, the sweat between our bodies a lingering burn? Will you kiss me awake, if I pretend to be asleep? No? Am I your prison wall—is that why you sit up and look out of the window instead? But when I climb over the bed and press my skin against yours, kiss your neck so that the heat of my breath brushes your collar bone, my tongue circling your skin as my caressing lips reveal unspoken words, you turn to me, finally, and tell me what you want. And I do it without question.

I stay here, your wish being my every command, my knees bent and my palms pressed into the bed, while your hand roams the rounded flesh that awaits the pleasure of the pain you give. It stings, just for a short while, that slap. And another, and another. For a second or two, each time your hand comes down against my flesh, every time the flat of your fingers smacks against my folds, I remember the last time you pushed me onto the bed. Your naked form was still damp from the shower, and you held my eyes with a look of caged and desperate lust. Every slap now is like a pounding of my heart when I’d lain there, thighs wide and begging, yet words not so. Every sting a punishment for refusing to acknowledge and embrace the body that begged for the tip of your cock, pressed thick and wet with anticipation against the part of me that wanted to hold it tight inside, and keep it forever. The last time, I was able to watch as your emotions changed; now all I see is my own breasts, pressed against your duvet as you elicit the moans form me that you want. Will you hold them in your thoughts, let them echo in your memory, when I am gone? And I have to go. Don’t I?

You turn me over. I could see your face now, if I want to. I try. Try to make every second a moment in heaven; make it count. If I close my eyes, I can imagine that you’re holding me close, enveloping me with arms that never want to let me go. Imagine that your lips are like butterflies landing on my neck; that your fingers roam, painting a treasured picture of tenderness over my breasts, against my cheek, creating finger-brush strokes in my hair. If I keep my eyes closed I can forget that your arms are too far away to encase me, that your hands dig into my hips purely to pull me up against your rutting cock. That your eyes are glazed over in fiery lust at the sight of us, a vision kept from me and reflected in no mirror, not even in your eyes. They absorb what they see: your slick thrust into the honey you’ve made, myself bared to you, but you not to me. You absorb every motion of my cunt against the base of your cock, every moan as your fingers stop digging into my hips and both of your hands fuck with my sensations, driving my clit wild, even as my eyes become wet and blurry. You take everything I can give, until your cock is overflowing with the desperation that only pure lust can bring, and, finally, you give me your hot sticky gift. It’s all you are able to give.

I open my eyes and find you laying next to me. What else have I left to give you? My arms as I pull myself into you; my hands as they roam your heaving, exhausted chest and reach up to caress the face that stares at the ceiling. That part of me that lies like shattered glass, piercing me so that I leak salty pain which travels in silence from my eyelashes to its secret home in your pillow. And we remain here, two bodies entwined, the rest of us so far apart, in the solitude of overwhelming sadness.

Take everything from me, then. Take it all. But leave me with something, however small, however frail. In case—just in case—this is the very last time.

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7 thoughts on “Finis? (18+ only)

    • Ina Morata says:

      I really appreciate your comments, Lance. It wasn’t the easiest piece to write (even if it was one of my shorter ones recently). I’m pleased that I managed to convey the emotion behind the writing. Thank you!

      Liked by 1 person

  1. lurvspanking says:

    Sometimes the prison of our desire keeps us caged not because we seek completion within the arms of another but rather the thought of starting over is too terrifying. I thought the pace and styling of your words showed her desperation and interpreted the story to be in the past as a memory not the present.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Ina Morata says:

      Thank you. What a wonderful observation you make about the piece. You are indeed correct, in that I was trying to evoke a combination of the superficiality of the present situation which has deeper rooted connections with her past than the present bedroom scene can illuminate. To my mind, also, it’s a story that lives in the past, even as it speaks of the present.


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