123 lines
6.3 KiB
Plaintext
123 lines
6.3 KiB
Plaintext
The Glasshouse
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The English summer evening can be graceful. The sun, seeking shade beyond
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the edge, posts a golden apology on leaf and pane. At this time I would
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dream with glazed vulnerablility and romantic thought. A lonely yearning,
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heightened by glass barriers.
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An interior and solitary person, I sought the plump cottage `with space' to
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range in my small, confined world in safety. It neighboured a twin, separated
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by a tall, derelict stone wall running the acre length of a matching
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riotous garden. A small green door set in the wall, testifying
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that neighbours had not always sought apartheid. This door was fast-stuck
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by generations of ivied suckers.
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I never sought to tame my jungle of frenzied creepers, wild shubbery and
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overblown fruit trees. The view from my scullery window was a daily summer
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surprise of changing colour and shape. An accidental happenstance much like
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my erratic life.
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The twin remained empty for the first eight months of my rule. Then
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the woman came. She slipped into the grey stone walls with ease and
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quiet. After the initial invasive flush I welcomed her remote companionship.
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The terror of neighbourly descent waned and I continued in my hermitage.
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Nothing seemingly altered. Her garden remained a matching riot.
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Then came the summer evenings and the glasshouse.
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It rose painfully amidst the shrubs during a day of workmanlike shouts.
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It filled fast with fernage and exotic blasts. At first a seeming huge
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blot of curving glass, I watched the sun bless it warmly and approved.
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The woman visited the glasshouse in the evenings. I discovered this
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accidentally whilst rummaging in my attic. Through the tiny, grimy window I
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could see her vista. Her privacy was assured by the garden wall were I
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elsewhere in my cottage. After the initial shock of that first
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sighting I shamelessly took station in the attic in anticipation of her
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further forays.
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She had a ritual. She would stroll the distance from the rear door to
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the glasshouse lifting her face to the farewell of day; testing
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the breeze. The apparently random journey would bring her to the
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glasshouse. She would pause before the door, shed her clothes unthinkingly
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on the grass, then enter.
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I saw her only from the rear. Naked, wide-hipped, not tall. A slight
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turn, a shifting of heavy auburn hair, a sullen swell of breast. I,
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cramped and cross-legged for an hour awaited her exit, then an ashamed
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voyeur, I eased downstairs to ponder in accustomed yearning.
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After the second sighting I cleaned the window and sought a cushioned
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comfort. I tummied, elbow propped in dreamy viewing. My nest
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established, tea and biscuits...a week passed in rear nude appreciation.
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On the seventh day I was rewarded. I remained longer than the hour and
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she emerged. She looked straight at my attic window. I froze, clearly
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outlined now the sunspray had given way to silver pane. My cove was dark
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but I was a silhouette in the light of the stairwell backlighting.
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The woman was proudlined. Her deep brown eyes warm and direct. She
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stood, a looselimbed statue with toffee-tipped curved breasts, swelling
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stomach and dark-downy crotch. She bent calmly, collected her clothes and
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glided from view.
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The next evening the green wall door was forced ajar, trailing jumbled
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ivy streamers and bruised earth.
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In a dream I passed through the torn green portal and entered her glass
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sanctuary. The mute light filled with fine billowing mist. Her
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greenhouse was served with overhead sprayers. One reason to be naked.
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Benches of ferns, fronds clasping damply over aisles. The strong musk
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of chipped bark, wet peat and dewey mud. And her, poised glittering
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with fine droplets, nude beside the orchids...lips slightly parted,
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feet slightly parted.
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The woman unclothed me gently while I moved in silent-limbed compliance.
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Our pile of cloth sprawled small on the lawn. She took my hand and
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smoothed my fingertips across the down of an orchid head. It slid in
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smooth giving, a warm, moist velvet. The stamen bumped its small erection
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in my palm, the bruised petals a pungent protest.
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Then, turning my palm up she placed it, with hers to cup my own
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pudendum. I felt my clitoris perk stamen-like in my palm and my
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fingers sought my warm satin, my own moist folds. We slipped
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our fingers in my wet well and my breath shortened.
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She met her tongue to the orchid, eyes closed, she licked the down.
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She closed softly around the shedding stamen and rolled gently. A fine
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yellow powder coated her lips when she rose and brought them to mine.
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I sucked her bottom lip, tasting, her tongue feinting.
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Then we lay, the damp bark sponging beneath us. She sighing as I
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spread her, kneeled to her opening to suck her buttoning toffee-tips
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with rolling lips and soft nipping. A heady dip and pungent swirls of
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bark and her scents. She unveiled in finger parted labia and pink
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whorls and crevices. She tasted thick and spicy and shifted creamy
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over my face. My tongue was caught and tucked in hollows and small
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silk caverns. Her voice...low, quick and foreign, encouraging with
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small growls. When she came, she trembled hard against my lips
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and spilled her precious pittance in my moving mouth.
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We crushed together, peering down at bulged mamma. She courted me with
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an eager mouth and sighs. She tore the orchid from its dark stem and
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trailed it over pink aureole and inner thigh. She worked the crumpling
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bloom in my sopping cleft and brought it, with her lips, to mine to taste
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and mix. Bending my legs hard up she curved my hips, shouldering my knees.
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Her tongue sought and forced past my pursed anus, a firm thrust...small
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muscling demand. Her heavy auburn hair wove wetly on my tensing thighs as
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I shamelessly rode her, her nose riding slittily. Her hands grabbed and
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mashed my breasts, stomach and swollen mound. When I shuddered she groaned
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in ecstasy.
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Afterwards we traced each other with fern fronds. We peered and
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compared and laughed, small, deep intimate sounds in the mist. We
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touched and rubbed, tasted and experimented. Our womenhood meshed and
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fit, bonded and acknowledged. A glass committed etching of flesh
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shapes.
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I learned her name was Eve.
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