11-20-2025, 03:41 PM
I've been single for two years now. And you know, I don't miss sex with other people anymore. I love sprawling across the width of the bed while I sleep, I like that my wands and vibrators never lie, never forget my birthday, I like that my fingers do everything a cock would do... and so much more.
But the most erotic part of me is my mind. The best sex happens in my head. And because sex happens in my head, intelligence turns me on. And when I hear a story about smart women—occasionally smart men—I get all excited. I create my own world of pleasure. I like to listen to stories, and when I do, the most amazing things can happen.
I do it right—nice lingerie, my lounger on the patio, a drink, a cigarette, headphones in, and relax.
"Vita had come, driving her blue Austin over the chalky roads across the Downs. I had waited two long years for this day. I truly thought I would never see her again, and now she was standing on the doorstep of my house on the coast. The fact that she had simply turned up, unannounced, uninvited, showed me that she considered herself above everyone else. Demanding, arrogant, knowing she could have me as she wished. Because she could. I had thought of her every day, just as I had when I was a young girl in Cranbrook. And my thoughts returned to the day we first met.
I kept thinking of the lady from the old castle, in her tweed trousers and canvas boots, so different from the women I knew. She came from an aristocratic family, was confident and intelligent, creative and wrote poetry. She was everything I wanted to be but never would be. I thought of her when I Lying in bed. My hand moved beneath the covers, my fingers explored the places between my legs. I enjoyed doing this, even though I'd always been taught it was wrong and would lead me to hell. When I thought of the lady, I noticed myself getting wet inside and how the movements of my fingers gave me pleasure. I knew nothing about myself. I still had so much to learn. But I knew it couldn't be wrong to desire another woman. One day, I wrote a poem, folded it carefully, put it in an envelope, and went to the castle. I decided that if I ever lost my courage, I would pretend I'd come to inquire about a maid's job.
I walked through a gate into the garden. On a hot summer day, there was no one in sight. I heard a noise from the shed where the pots were kept. There she was, standing in her boots and gardening gloves, smelling of earth and nature. I held the envelope tightly in my pocket.
She interrupted her Work and looked at me.
"Hello," she said.
"Good morning, Ma'am," I stammered. I approached her, then, I don't know why, I fell to my knees, put my arms around the tops of her boots, and said,
"Ma'am, I love you, I adore you."
I began kissing the leather part of the boots that encased her feet. Intoxicated by the leather, the earthy scent of the garden, and the smell of my own arousal, I began to sob.
She lifted my head and smiled.
"I have a poem for you," I said.
"Go into my study," she said, handing me a key, "and wait for me there. Take off your clothes. You'll feel much more comfortable that way."
"My clothes, Ma'am?"
"Your clothes. A woman is always most beautiful naked."
I stood naked in front of her desk, which was crammed with papers, and the ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. Literature and sex, that was what I wanted. Nothing more.
Vita came in and asked me to take off her boots. I carefully untied the laces, tenderly kissing each eyelet, and gently removed the boots. Vita didn't wait for me – she quickly took off her breeches, and soon I was looking at her genitals.
"You will never see anything more beautiful. This is more beautiful than all the flowers in my garden." She lay back, spread her legs, and invited me closer. "It is a flower, the most beautiful of all flowers. Smell it."
I hesitated, but couldn't resist. As my nose approached, I smelled a woman's arousal for the first time.
She placed her hand on the back of my head and gently pushed my face into her crotch. I knew I had to satisfy her, and my tongue darted back and forth like a snake's, as if slurping the air. She took a finger, opened the vulva, and invited me inside. What a taste it was—sour, salty, sweet. I began to lick, first quickly, then slowly, while the warmth of her body made my face glow. I took my time. I wanted this to last forever.
"Next time I'll pleasure you," Vita said. "Come tomorrow at eleven o'clock."
The next day, my nerves failed me. I sat on my bed and cried. I lay down and howled in pain. She certainly wouldn't forgive me...
The story ends suddenly. I don't care. I continue—imagining myself sitting with Vita in the back seat of the Austin, brown leather warmed by the Kent sun. She's fully clothed, wearing gardening trousers, brown lace-up boots, her hair cut short. She turns away, and I see a square, almost masculine jaw. God, I desire this woman. I push two fingers inside, work my clitoris harder, and make myself come. I gasp and suppress a scream that might be heard beyond the high hedge.
I lie back, pick up a cigarette, and am about to light it.
"Take one of mine."
I jump and turn over on my lounger. She's standing in front of me, holding out a pack of unfiltered cigarettes.
"Vita... I mean, My Lady?"
She ignores the question.
"These have more flavor, you'll see."
"I don't know... I mean, I usually only smoke filter cigarettes."
"But you have one for me, right?"
She holds out the pack again and lights one. I take a deep drag and cough as the tarry, unfiltered smoke fills my lungs. I feel dizzy.
"I'm not used to this. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She smiles.
"Are you smoking one?"
"In a minute. But we need to talk."
"Talk?"
"You always overhear when I meet pretty young girls. And you're always jerking off."
"Sorry," I say, feeling my courage rise. "Is that wrong?"
"Are you dreaming about us?"
"Well, I suppose I am—about one of you, anyway."
"And which one of us is that?"
"You." I blush and lower my gaze. I hardly dare to consider her reaction.
"You flatter me. There are people who think I look too masculine. Do you think I look masculine?"
I take a drag on the cigarette and blow out the smoke slowly.
"I think you're beautiful."
"But beautiful in a masculine way? Is that what attracts you?"
"Yes," I say quietly.
"Or is it because I'm widely known as gay?"
"That too. I mean, I've never been with a woman; I've only ever been with men."
"There's nothing wrong with men. I'm married. I have a son."
"I know, I..."
"But I tend to prefer the female body."
"I'd like to... you know, with a woman."
"I have no doubt about it."
"In the back seat of your car, in a field somewhere."
"I really don't think I..."
"I want to kiss your boots."
"I'm afraid you'll be a rather demanding lover."
"But please, can we?"
"We can and we will."
I finish the cigarette and throw the butt in the ashtray. Vita takes out a new one.
"I'll be back when I've finished my tryst with my young admirer. But before I leave, I want to taste you."
She takes the cigarette in her left hand and spreads my labia with the fingers of her right hand. She pushes the cigarette into my soaking wet vagina. I moan as she moves it in and out. She pulls it out, and I gasp with pleasure.
She lights it, takes a drag, and hands it to me.
"Smoke and taste for yourself. You are quite delightful. I will enjoy our lovemaking very much. But I have to return to a story with a young lady who adores me very much. And so will you."
She turns and leaves. I don't see where she went. I take a drag on the cigarette before inserting the unlit end into my slit. I grip it with my muscles and pull, making it glow red before exhaling the smoke. I do this twice before taking a final drag. I push them out and put the headphones back on. The story has started all over again.
"You tried to escape me, but I always get what I want. I heard you left Cranbrook and moved to the coast. It took me two years to find you. Did you think about me, masturbate to me every day, fuck against the sheets, your clitoris swell and slap against your panties until you screamed in frustration, long for me the way that slut listening to us naked in her backyard longs for me? Did you?"
I blush at the sound of it and massage my clitoris even more furiously. Yes, I'm a slut, but so what? Vita is a stuck-up cow with her upper-class entitlement. But she will be mine. Even if I worship her, I will bring her down. She will kneel before me and worship my cunt.
"You make me willing, you are so cruel, sometimes I think you're using me."
I said nothing more as Vita pulled me to her and kissed me hard. Her right hand cupped my head and held it tight, while her left hand searched for the waistband of my skirt and began to push it down my thigh. She put her hand inside my panties and felt for my clitoris, my precious bud, held in her beautiful hand.
She began to rub it, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and when I moaned, she slid a finger into my cunt, which was now completely wet. She kissed me again and quickly brought me to orgasm.
I quickly stood up and went outside. I squinted as I stared into the hot sun, undressed, and put on the loose cotton dress I'd left on the bench. I plucked a stem from the dark pink foxglove that was nodding in the breeze next to the doorpost and tied it in my hair like a garland. The dress fluttered in the soft, warm breeze, occasional gusts from the sea lifting it and exposing my needy pussy. I wanted her so badly. She looked terrified as I walked back into the house. I fell to my knees before her and kissed the ground.
"You are the poison of my soul."
I took a bluebell from my hair and handed it to Vita.
"The poison and decay I cannot resist, the poison I need."
I took another flower and placed it at her feet.
"Press this flower, my darling, and write on the leaf: 'For the soul I have poisoned with desire.'"
I took the garland from my head and shook my hair.
"I am yours, I am she whose soul you have poisoned with desire, forever. I wish no healing."
I laid my head on the floorboards and moved it further to caress Vita's brown lace-up boots. I lifted my head slightly and kissed them. I kissed them again, trailing kisses up the tops of the boots, licking them clean and tasting the blessed soil of Sissinghurst on my tongue, my tongue almost as blessed as the grass and gravel that crunched beneath Vita's soles as she worked in the garden—as she created beauty through hard work, as sweat stained her blouses. And didn't I love, on one of the rare nights she was alone, to sleep in one of those boots, free to be with Vita. I sunk my tongue lovingly into the soft leather, licking and kissing until I reached the toe.
Vita leaned back and unbuttoned her breeches, pulling them down to reveal her unshaven cunt, a riot of curly hair I could plunge into and lose track of time, wandering alone in its darkening shadow, climbing the slopes of her mound, overhanging the labia as if reaching the crest of a mountain—no, a volcano, a volcano that closed like a shell, preserving the sticky secrets of its crater.
I could happily lie down here and die.
My fingers spread Vita's lips, and the shell opened to reveal its pearl. I dipped in to touch it, with my tongue, a little inside to taste the sweet acidity—honey and vinegar, honey and vinegar. I knew that one day Vita would leave me, had to leave me, so I licked and caressed her greedily, and soon Vita was moaning, and with a few gentle licks on her clitoris, she was brought to the edge. I knew I couldn't let her come too easily.
Vita moaned again.
"More. More, kiss me there, there."
She placed her finger on her clitoris, but I gently removed it.
"My Lady Sackville-West will come when I say so."
I surprised myself with this assertiveness, but I made her wait, seasoning the pleasure with suffering. And waited she did. Vita writhed and moaned. I stroked her clitoris again, very gently, to keep her on the edge and torment her even more. Vita moaned again, but this time in pain and frustration. Then I took pity on her and dove in to retrieve the pearl that was Vita's pleasure. I rubbed my face in her hair and then licked Vita's clitoris greedily and quickly until she came with a scream.
"Oh, thank you, my beautiful, thank you!"
I looked up, fixed my gaze on Vita, and said:
"You know I belong to you, belong to you forever and ever, and you treat me cruelly, you humiliate me, you make me feel worthless, do you know that? Like a pathetic little puppy, craving its mistress's attention and using all sorts of tricks to win it. But you know that only makes her want you more. And when I can't be with you, I'll write a poem every day, just for you."
I took a piece of paper out of my bra, unfolded it, and began to read.
When angels fail and faith
fails. When friends
betray me and I'm alone,
you are there.
When I'm an ugly duckling,
when I hate my body, when I
could cut myself in disgust,
you are there
to tell me I'm beautiful. am.
When I kneel to kiss my lover's boot,
humiliate myself, feel unworthy of love,
you are
there for me. In the silence of the night,
When I put my pain into words,
words that are always meant for you,
you are there.
If there is a heaven,
And I pray so much that it does,
we will still make love.
You will be there.
The story ends. I haven't come yet, I continue to work my clitoris while imagining my poem being read to her, this is my poem to her, my poem, my poem...
I will write for her, I must. She comes to me, she comes as she promised, with all her arrogance, her contempt, but she can use me as he wants, she can use me, my cunt is hers, my tongue is at her service, she...
Another vision of the boots, wet from the floor of Sissinghurst, held up for me to lick, and I come, my head filling with visions of beautiful gardens, of flowers shading the sun, of bees crawling into the spotted bells of their foxgloves.
A poem, a poem.
I have a notepad on the plastic garden table. I push a finger inside myself and mark the page with my juices. I kiss it, I rub it against my clitoris. I come again. I take a pen and start writing.
But writing is so hard. The blank page is like the agony of trimming the edges. I want to, I can't, I must, I must. I scream. I light a cigarette, pour myself a drink, and turn around in my chair, kneel, and rub myself against the cushion of the backrest.
"A poem, a poem, let me write a poem for you!"
Faster, faster, the ideas come, and I furiously write down everything that comes to mind. I don't worry about rhymes, line breaks, or assonance, all those things I never learned, just words, words, words. And each one for her.
I put the paper down. I'm so tired. I think about my bed, about the toys I keep in my nightstand.
I hear a car driving down the road, an old car, I think, based on the sputtering chug of the engine. I peer through the hedge. The car is blue, and I can smell the old car scent, oil and gasoline, hot metal and leather.
My God, the smell of leather, her leather! I'm wet. I am hers. She will be mine.
The End
But the most erotic part of me is my mind. The best sex happens in my head. And because sex happens in my head, intelligence turns me on. And when I hear a story about smart women—occasionally smart men—I get all excited. I create my own world of pleasure. I like to listen to stories, and when I do, the most amazing things can happen.
I do it right—nice lingerie, my lounger on the patio, a drink, a cigarette, headphones in, and relax.
"Vita had come, driving her blue Austin over the chalky roads across the Downs. I had waited two long years for this day. I truly thought I would never see her again, and now she was standing on the doorstep of my house on the coast. The fact that she had simply turned up, unannounced, uninvited, showed me that she considered herself above everyone else. Demanding, arrogant, knowing she could have me as she wished. Because she could. I had thought of her every day, just as I had when I was a young girl in Cranbrook. And my thoughts returned to the day we first met.
I kept thinking of the lady from the old castle, in her tweed trousers and canvas boots, so different from the women I knew. She came from an aristocratic family, was confident and intelligent, creative and wrote poetry. She was everything I wanted to be but never would be. I thought of her when I Lying in bed. My hand moved beneath the covers, my fingers explored the places between my legs. I enjoyed doing this, even though I'd always been taught it was wrong and would lead me to hell. When I thought of the lady, I noticed myself getting wet inside and how the movements of my fingers gave me pleasure. I knew nothing about myself. I still had so much to learn. But I knew it couldn't be wrong to desire another woman. One day, I wrote a poem, folded it carefully, put it in an envelope, and went to the castle. I decided that if I ever lost my courage, I would pretend I'd come to inquire about a maid's job.
I walked through a gate into the garden. On a hot summer day, there was no one in sight. I heard a noise from the shed where the pots were kept. There she was, standing in her boots and gardening gloves, smelling of earth and nature. I held the envelope tightly in my pocket.
She interrupted her Work and looked at me.
"Hello," she said.
"Good morning, Ma'am," I stammered. I approached her, then, I don't know why, I fell to my knees, put my arms around the tops of her boots, and said,
"Ma'am, I love you, I adore you."
I began kissing the leather part of the boots that encased her feet. Intoxicated by the leather, the earthy scent of the garden, and the smell of my own arousal, I began to sob.
She lifted my head and smiled.
"I have a poem for you," I said.
"Go into my study," she said, handing me a key, "and wait for me there. Take off your clothes. You'll feel much more comfortable that way."
"My clothes, Ma'am?"
"Your clothes. A woman is always most beautiful naked."
I stood naked in front of her desk, which was crammed with papers, and the ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. Literature and sex, that was what I wanted. Nothing more.
Vita came in and asked me to take off her boots. I carefully untied the laces, tenderly kissing each eyelet, and gently removed the boots. Vita didn't wait for me – she quickly took off her breeches, and soon I was looking at her genitals.
"You will never see anything more beautiful. This is more beautiful than all the flowers in my garden." She lay back, spread her legs, and invited me closer. "It is a flower, the most beautiful of all flowers. Smell it."
I hesitated, but couldn't resist. As my nose approached, I smelled a woman's arousal for the first time.
She placed her hand on the back of my head and gently pushed my face into her crotch. I knew I had to satisfy her, and my tongue darted back and forth like a snake's, as if slurping the air. She took a finger, opened the vulva, and invited me inside. What a taste it was—sour, salty, sweet. I began to lick, first quickly, then slowly, while the warmth of her body made my face glow. I took my time. I wanted this to last forever.
"Next time I'll pleasure you," Vita said. "Come tomorrow at eleven o'clock."
The next day, my nerves failed me. I sat on my bed and cried. I lay down and howled in pain. She certainly wouldn't forgive me...
The story ends suddenly. I don't care. I continue—imagining myself sitting with Vita in the back seat of the Austin, brown leather warmed by the Kent sun. She's fully clothed, wearing gardening trousers, brown lace-up boots, her hair cut short. She turns away, and I see a square, almost masculine jaw. God, I desire this woman. I push two fingers inside, work my clitoris harder, and make myself come. I gasp and suppress a scream that might be heard beyond the high hedge.
I lie back, pick up a cigarette, and am about to light it.
"Take one of mine."
I jump and turn over on my lounger. She's standing in front of me, holding out a pack of unfiltered cigarettes.
"Vita... I mean, My Lady?"
She ignores the question.
"These have more flavor, you'll see."
"I don't know... I mean, I usually only smoke filter cigarettes."
"But you have one for me, right?"
She holds out the pack again and lights one. I take a deep drag and cough as the tarry, unfiltered smoke fills my lungs. I feel dizzy.
"I'm not used to this. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She smiles.
"Are you smoking one?"
"In a minute. But we need to talk."
"Talk?"
"You always overhear when I meet pretty young girls. And you're always jerking off."
"Sorry," I say, feeling my courage rise. "Is that wrong?"
"Are you dreaming about us?"
"Well, I suppose I am—about one of you, anyway."
"And which one of us is that?"
"You." I blush and lower my gaze. I hardly dare to consider her reaction.
"You flatter me. There are people who think I look too masculine. Do you think I look masculine?"
I take a drag on the cigarette and blow out the smoke slowly.
"I think you're beautiful."
"But beautiful in a masculine way? Is that what attracts you?"
"Yes," I say quietly.
"Or is it because I'm widely known as gay?"
"That too. I mean, I've never been with a woman; I've only ever been with men."
"There's nothing wrong with men. I'm married. I have a son."
"I know, I..."
"But I tend to prefer the female body."
"I'd like to... you know, with a woman."
"I have no doubt about it."
"In the back seat of your car, in a field somewhere."
"I really don't think I..."
"I want to kiss your boots."
"I'm afraid you'll be a rather demanding lover."
"But please, can we?"
"We can and we will."
I finish the cigarette and throw the butt in the ashtray. Vita takes out a new one.
"I'll be back when I've finished my tryst with my young admirer. But before I leave, I want to taste you."
She takes the cigarette in her left hand and spreads my labia with the fingers of her right hand. She pushes the cigarette into my soaking wet vagina. I moan as she moves it in and out. She pulls it out, and I gasp with pleasure.
She lights it, takes a drag, and hands it to me.
"Smoke and taste for yourself. You are quite delightful. I will enjoy our lovemaking very much. But I have to return to a story with a young lady who adores me very much. And so will you."
She turns and leaves. I don't see where she went. I take a drag on the cigarette before inserting the unlit end into my slit. I grip it with my muscles and pull, making it glow red before exhaling the smoke. I do this twice before taking a final drag. I push them out and put the headphones back on. The story has started all over again.
"You tried to escape me, but I always get what I want. I heard you left Cranbrook and moved to the coast. It took me two years to find you. Did you think about me, masturbate to me every day, fuck against the sheets, your clitoris swell and slap against your panties until you screamed in frustration, long for me the way that slut listening to us naked in her backyard longs for me? Did you?"
I blush at the sound of it and massage my clitoris even more furiously. Yes, I'm a slut, but so what? Vita is a stuck-up cow with her upper-class entitlement. But she will be mine. Even if I worship her, I will bring her down. She will kneel before me and worship my cunt.
"You make me willing, you are so cruel, sometimes I think you're using me."
I said nothing more as Vita pulled me to her and kissed me hard. Her right hand cupped my head and held it tight, while her left hand searched for the waistband of my skirt and began to push it down my thigh. She put her hand inside my panties and felt for my clitoris, my precious bud, held in her beautiful hand.
She began to rub it, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and when I moaned, she slid a finger into my cunt, which was now completely wet. She kissed me again and quickly brought me to orgasm.
I quickly stood up and went outside. I squinted as I stared into the hot sun, undressed, and put on the loose cotton dress I'd left on the bench. I plucked a stem from the dark pink foxglove that was nodding in the breeze next to the doorpost and tied it in my hair like a garland. The dress fluttered in the soft, warm breeze, occasional gusts from the sea lifting it and exposing my needy pussy. I wanted her so badly. She looked terrified as I walked back into the house. I fell to my knees before her and kissed the ground.
"You are the poison of my soul."
I took a bluebell from my hair and handed it to Vita.
"The poison and decay I cannot resist, the poison I need."
I took another flower and placed it at her feet.
"Press this flower, my darling, and write on the leaf: 'For the soul I have poisoned with desire.'"
I took the garland from my head and shook my hair.
"I am yours, I am she whose soul you have poisoned with desire, forever. I wish no healing."
I laid my head on the floorboards and moved it further to caress Vita's brown lace-up boots. I lifted my head slightly and kissed them. I kissed them again, trailing kisses up the tops of the boots, licking them clean and tasting the blessed soil of Sissinghurst on my tongue, my tongue almost as blessed as the grass and gravel that crunched beneath Vita's soles as she worked in the garden—as she created beauty through hard work, as sweat stained her blouses. And didn't I love, on one of the rare nights she was alone, to sleep in one of those boots, free to be with Vita. I sunk my tongue lovingly into the soft leather, licking and kissing until I reached the toe.
Vita leaned back and unbuttoned her breeches, pulling them down to reveal her unshaven cunt, a riot of curly hair I could plunge into and lose track of time, wandering alone in its darkening shadow, climbing the slopes of her mound, overhanging the labia as if reaching the crest of a mountain—no, a volcano, a volcano that closed like a shell, preserving the sticky secrets of its crater.
I could happily lie down here and die.
My fingers spread Vita's lips, and the shell opened to reveal its pearl. I dipped in to touch it, with my tongue, a little inside to taste the sweet acidity—honey and vinegar, honey and vinegar. I knew that one day Vita would leave me, had to leave me, so I licked and caressed her greedily, and soon Vita was moaning, and with a few gentle licks on her clitoris, she was brought to the edge. I knew I couldn't let her come too easily.
Vita moaned again.
"More. More, kiss me there, there."
She placed her finger on her clitoris, but I gently removed it.
"My Lady Sackville-West will come when I say so."
I surprised myself with this assertiveness, but I made her wait, seasoning the pleasure with suffering. And waited she did. Vita writhed and moaned. I stroked her clitoris again, very gently, to keep her on the edge and torment her even more. Vita moaned again, but this time in pain and frustration. Then I took pity on her and dove in to retrieve the pearl that was Vita's pleasure. I rubbed my face in her hair and then licked Vita's clitoris greedily and quickly until she came with a scream.
"Oh, thank you, my beautiful, thank you!"
I looked up, fixed my gaze on Vita, and said:
"You know I belong to you, belong to you forever and ever, and you treat me cruelly, you humiliate me, you make me feel worthless, do you know that? Like a pathetic little puppy, craving its mistress's attention and using all sorts of tricks to win it. But you know that only makes her want you more. And when I can't be with you, I'll write a poem every day, just for you."
I took a piece of paper out of my bra, unfolded it, and began to read.
When angels fail and faith
fails. When friends
betray me and I'm alone,
you are there.
When I'm an ugly duckling,
when I hate my body, when I
could cut myself in disgust,
you are there
to tell me I'm beautiful. am.
When I kneel to kiss my lover's boot,
humiliate myself, feel unworthy of love,
you are
there for me. In the silence of the night,
When I put my pain into words,
words that are always meant for you,
you are there.
If there is a heaven,
And I pray so much that it does,
we will still make love.
You will be there.
The story ends. I haven't come yet, I continue to work my clitoris while imagining my poem being read to her, this is my poem to her, my poem, my poem...
I will write for her, I must. She comes to me, she comes as she promised, with all her arrogance, her contempt, but she can use me as he wants, she can use me, my cunt is hers, my tongue is at her service, she...
Another vision of the boots, wet from the floor of Sissinghurst, held up for me to lick, and I come, my head filling with visions of beautiful gardens, of flowers shading the sun, of bees crawling into the spotted bells of their foxgloves.
A poem, a poem.
I have a notepad on the plastic garden table. I push a finger inside myself and mark the page with my juices. I kiss it, I rub it against my clitoris. I come again. I take a pen and start writing.
But writing is so hard. The blank page is like the agony of trimming the edges. I want to, I can't, I must, I must. I scream. I light a cigarette, pour myself a drink, and turn around in my chair, kneel, and rub myself against the cushion of the backrest.
"A poem, a poem, let me write a poem for you!"
Faster, faster, the ideas come, and I furiously write down everything that comes to mind. I don't worry about rhymes, line breaks, or assonance, all those things I never learned, just words, words, words. And each one for her.
I put the paper down. I'm so tired. I think about my bed, about the toys I keep in my nightstand.
I hear a car driving down the road, an old car, I think, based on the sputtering chug of the engine. I peer through the hedge. The car is blue, and I can smell the old car scent, oil and gasoline, hot metal and leather.
My God, the smell of leather, her leather! I'm wet. I am hers. She will be mine.
The End