I stroke your skin, your thighs. Downy hairs interrupt the smoothness of it. Do you only shave below the knee? I never noticed that before. Your thighs are muscular – what a word. Muscular. Almost a phylum of its own. Your legs are long and tanned. You like jogging. You play tennis. You do yoga twice a week. Is that where they're from? Your muscles? You also watch TV most nights. Do you flex your muscles while you watch the soaps? Do you clench your buttocks on our leather sofa? Your arms are remarkably hairless. Your toes line up like Matryoshka dolls. I know your right nipple has two hairs at five and six o'clock. You snip them off when you remember to. Your belly button is inward sprung. I quite like outward ones. But yours is cute. I like to lick it and watch you squirm. 'Make me want to do pee-pee,' you once said. And I licked it more. Never pierce it. Promise? Your stomach is small and rounded, like a little girl's. I love it when you wear cropped cotton tops and hipster jeans. You shaved your pubic hair just for me. Thank you. Your breasts are still firm. Your armpits have just a touch of stubble and a light dusting of deodorant. Your hair looks red at night. Is that its real colour? Are you really blonde? You hardly move when you sleep. You murmur. Mumble. Mutter. You have a habit you don’t know about. Shall I tell you? You rub your nose with your right index finger while you sleep. Quite vigorously. I wish you were wearing panties. I like to slip them off while you’re sleeping, drink in their yeasty perfume. Are you surprised you’re naked some mornings? You never let on. Never tell. I kiss your nose. I kiss your eyelids. They flutter. Are you dreaming? Who cares? I kiss your mouth. Lick your lips. Lick your chin. Kiss your throat. You move your head gently left to right as if you are not sure about saying no. Yes. I will. I hold your nose. You let out a gentle cough. I pinch your lips together. I put my thigh over yours. Feel the heat. My knee touches your pubic bone. I let go of your nose and lips. Stroke your breasts. Your nipples begin to become erect. I lick my fingers and rub your nipples. You brush my hand away and turn on your side. Silhouetted against the window, your hips are, I realise, amphora-shaped. I stroke them. I imagine them to be a shadowy roller coaster and my hand is the car, out of control, coming off the rails. I pinch your left buttock. Quite hard. Then I stroke it. Pat it. Pet it. I want this part. I move my finger up between your cheeks. You blink. Your eyes open and then close. I whisper in your ear, ‘Are you awake?’ You murmur. You mumble. You mutter. I nuzzle into your hair. I bite your ear. What would it be like? Would you know? Could you tell? Shall I? What do you think? I think I will. You’ll never know. 

[Forever after at

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