Posted by John Allen Small on Monday, March 24, 2014 Under: A Story A Week
(NOTE: This week's entry in the week "Spohn Challenge" project is a little on the racy side. Apologies for that...)
It was his birthday.
She wanted to give him a gift that would mean something. Something that would always remind him of her, of the time they had spent together, no matter what tomorrow might hold.
So she sent him a glove.
Just one white glove, one half of a set, separated from its mate just as they were separated now. As soft as silk, with an open heart-shaped pattern embroidered there in the center, at the back of the hand.
It was one of the gloves she had worn that night. First dinner, then the theatre, after which they had laid in the grass under the stars and pledged their love in that special way young lovers so often will do. They’d laughed when they noticed the old lady in the house next door spying on them from her window of her second-story bedroom; of course they had a lot of explaining to do to her parents when the police showed up just a few minutes later, but eventually they had been able to laugh about that, too.
She held the glove against her face, caressed her cheek with it and kissed the glove the way she imagined he would kiss her hand if he were there with her right now. Then she sprayed it with just the slightest trace of his favorite perfume, dropped the glove into one of those large yellow envelopes that are usually used for mailing legal papers, and sealed it shut.
She hoped – she prayed – that he would keep it and remember. Inhale its fragrance and imagine that the perfume was rising up to him from her own skin. The way it always did when she was damp with desire.
Perhaps, when he was alone with just his imagination to keep him company, he might even draw the glove up over his own body and pretend that it was her hand, that her fingers were there lightly caressing him in that way he loved so well.
Even if she could not be there with him, her glove would spread her scent over his being as it touched every sensitive spot, every hidden valley upon the willing terrain of his body...
If she had her way, if it were a perfect world, she would be there before him now – just pushing him back onto the bed, or the sofa, or the floor, or whatever, as she reached around with her gloved hands and unzipped the back of the navy blue linen dress she’d worn that night and let it gently fall down around her ankles. Dressed only in a garter belt and stockings, and maybe that sheer white lace brassiere he’d ordered for her from that Victoria’s
Secret catalogue last Christmas, she would slowly settle herself over his body as he gazed lovingly up into her eyes. He’d revel in the sensation of her stockings rubbing against him, embrace her as she leaned down and pressed her entire body into his own, luxuriate in the gentle rhythmic stroking of her gloves...
Throughout the remainder of the day and well into the night they would be as one: their bodies joined, their souls entwined, their voices crying out in joyous unison as the ecstasy such moments bring rushed over their collective being.
And when at last their energies – if not their passion – had been spent, they would rise, shower, dress, dine, and perhaps begin planning the rest of their lives together.
But for now, for tonight, all that was only a dream. There were too many miles and too many years between them for it to be anything more than that.
One day, perhaps, they would be free to pursue the dream they had shared for so long.
Until then, that was all she could do. She could only dream.
And send him a glove...
In : A Story A Week