Ocean Lust, Pt. 1

The sound of the waves hitting the shore lulled her; relaxed her as she lay in her living room, sated. Always felt that the sound of the ocean was Mother Nature’s orgasm; it crested softly when calm and gently roared at its peak. Moreover, it was in complete control of itself. It didn’t rely on another variable to bring it to its pleasure. She enjoyed laying and listening to it, reflecting on her own self induced cries of ecstasy as they bounced off the four walls of her ocean side villa. Her cried were her blanket, her ultimate proof of total independence. She didn’t need a man…or a woman, for that matter. Not to make her come. Not to bring her…there.

But she was lonely.

The blanket of whispers and self induced moans weren’t enough sometimes, enough to squelch a deeper desire for something more substantial. She realized that at some point, she would need to forget about her self imposed exile from everything and everyone and make a decision. She sat up, the scent of her musk still lingering in the air and glanced around. Her place was lightly adorned; it reflected her sensuality and some of her best work. Then again, her sensuality was, indeed, her best work. In the center of the wall across from a glass sliding door leading to the beach was a huge framed black-and-white. The contrast in colors was stark: a woman, dark chocolate in color, lithely kneeled; her thighs splayed suggestively open, back arched. A plain white satin sheet lay artfully between her thighs and wrapped around to her wrist. Her hair was a mass of curls that shone mahogany red from the black and white portrait; her white teeth seemed to grasp someone’s name in midair.

A solitary hand, much lighter in comparison, snaked across the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Lithe tapered fingers spread over the mound; her nail making the slightest indentation; a dimple in a soft rock. The man’s hands seemed to have no color; yet they shone pecan brown despite the black and white on her hips, hoisting her. She seemed resplendent. The pleasure in her echoed and shook without a motion or sound.

The house in and of itself contained very little furniture. You could say that her loneliness was her bed, her sexuality her pillow, her fingers, the blanket that covered her every night. She spent most of her time in an adjacent studio, further up on the mainland, and thus had no need for accessorizing. Her home seemed more of a gallery to her work and to the work of others whom she admired. Stretching her legs, she went in search of a cold beer and some sweats. She had work to do.

* * *

The studio was covered in tubes of tempera and palettes with mixed colors. Tarps and canvases, both blank and half finished, lay every where. In the corner, by the factory window stood a tripod with a digital video/still camera. Rolls of film littered the floor in the corner. Her eyes scanned the room; this was her second love. She had a presentation to make to a local gallery, and she wanted to bring a plethora of work with her. Setting up a canvas with a palm tree painted on it; she set out to complete some of her work.

Her footsteps were familiar…the tick clock of her step caught her attention. She paused in mid stroke, slightly frustrated. Anaya knew not to interrupt her when she was in the studio; it broke her concentration and creative flow. Still, she said nothing. Anaya spoke. “You didn’t return my call”. “I didn’t know I needed to”. She resumed her strokes. The response was softer, that of an apologetic lover: “You worried me when you left that night”. “Go figure…couldn’t tell you cared”. Stroke. The tide was coming in; she could hear the rush of water, lapping against the shore. Anaya’s footsteps came closer still. “Why’d you run away?” “You got too close. I told you that I need my space. You were in it. So I left.” The answer seemed simple to her: she never allowed anyone to enter her personal space, moreover her heart. It complicated things for her. She had always been a drifter, ready to relocate at a moment’s notice. She felt Anaya’s hand on the small of her back. The hand from the picture. She froze in mid stroke. This girl was breaking all her rules.

“You don’t have to run anymore”.

Anaya ran her hands through her coarse red hair. Her fingers curled around a lock; she pulled it gently. She knew what it did to her. “Come here”. She was reluctant. Her studio was her haven, she didn’t want it sullied. Anaya pulled, this time a little tighter. “Come here”. She stood and faced her. Anaya traced the contours of her face with her finger and gently brought her head upwards. She leaned in and kissed her. Again. She loosened up a little, sighing. Anaya released her hair and rested that hand on her waist. She tugged lightly on the waistband of her sweats. She began to kiss her cheek. Then her earlobe. Her neck. Her tongue lay a trail from her neck to her earlobe. Reversed. That was her spot. She didn’t even notice when her sweatpants slid to the floor. Wasn’t aware that Anaya lay her on the tarp and took off her wifebeater in one solitary motion. All her mind could focus on was the sensation. Anaya’s mouth on her neck. Sucking her fingers. Then, on her breasts. Caressing the nipple with the soft flesh of her tongue. Her fingers took on another life, they found a comfortable spot within the folds of her

blackberry flesh and began to play.

She was very wet. Anaya always compared her to a chocolate covered strawberry…dark surroundings with a red, juicy center that dripped with the subtlest hints of the finest caramel. Anaya’s soft flesh found its way from her breast, down the middle of her torso to the red in her cove. She arched off the tarp. “What…are you doing…to me…”

(c) Kaye Michele ~ 2010