Jewaira's Boudoir

All the words came to her in images now. As soon as she shut her eyes there appeared great shapes in odd colors which shone like a prism through her eyelids.

I think of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

I remember Gene. Why didn’t you love me, Geney? Your blue eyes were distant but what is the word? Passionate.

She wonders if blue eyes can be passionate.

Here I am. Here I am. Oh, I am looking for the Kent comb he bought me. The day I forgot my hairbrush. He bought it from the baqqallah, before our tryst.

You stand there, watching me comb my hair in the white bathroom. Applying a little hair gloss and teasing the ends just so. You always say: Gently, my love. Don’t yank your hair out.

Oh, he loves my hair. He loves the way it changes hues.

Once he told me that his eyes were yellow. But they changed when he was ten.

I remember standing there by his desk as he told me. I laughed. I called him tiger eyes.

She always teased him about his tiger eyes after that.

In the beginning, everything was him. That is always the way it was loving him. She wanted to give him every part of her.

I saw beauty in everything.

Once she bought him a roaring furry white tiger. It reminded her of you. Only it had blue eyes. Ice blue eyes. It was soft and furry and she called it Nammoor or little tiger.

Remember Batboota? She bought her for you too! A soft furry duck. Toys for your car.

And then one night, in the dark, we talked, you and I, on the phone. It was one of those long easy conversations. We talked about everything. You always left your friends for me.

She was so special in his heart. At first he called her dear one. But then she became his love. His lover. His sweetheart. All the words she could never say. She was adored.

You worshipped her.

So one night, she told you stories about Batboota and Nammoor. Silly erotic stories. But you listened and you added your own bits. Batboota teased Nammoor. He chased her. He nips the back of her neck and holds her down while he makes wild love to her. She wants him but plays coy. That hussy ducky.

You keep them together in a plastic bag in your car. Together always. But we are apart now.

You talk to me, telling me about how aroused you are. I can hear you . Up down. Slosh, slosh. Wet, aroused and made desperate by the sound of my voice, telling you soft stories in your ear.

Sometimes it is difficult to let go and reach the final point. Longing to have that orgasm rip through your senses and burst into brilliant fireworks in the sky. You want it so badly that thinking about it just makes it unattainable. And he is sweating, working your body, urging you, come on, come on but you will not come. You will not come. You want to reach climax then just to appease him, to get rid of that feeling of incompletion. Of not finishing the race. Of stopping halfway.

I just lost it in the rush of moments. I was almost there. But now it is gone.

Writing stories are like orgasms. Female orgasms. You can’t force them. They are fleeting, but when they come, they come in strong overwhelming waves.

And now I am a filly, rolling in the sand, kicking my hooves in the air. Teasing you, my stallion.

I am only for you.