We had just finished, but I ached for her again. Longed. It always starts within moments after we finish. She was laying in satin, body soft putty, eyes half mast. Just looking at her made me grow more than half mast. She stretches and I can bear it no more, I hold her down, I entwine myself into an embrace. I spend hours envisioning her like this, I invest time in learning about her sensuality and reading her body language.
Her knowledge fills me with pain and pleasure and sex and possibility.
I know when I grab her hips, if she arches, I need to pound into her – I have no fear of hurting her – just of not fucking her hard enough, push her down until her face is smothered in the fabric.
If she whips her hair around, that is my cue to grip it and yank as I mount her, hard impale and make her bend her body to where she’s comfortably uncomfortable. I can feel the tell tale signs of her quivering sex, her erratic movements against my groin, cum and sweat dripping down our thighs, coating my cock, and I hold on for all I am worth and let her grind at a slower tempo until she climaxes. Often, she takes me with her.
Her screams make me readjust, reassure her that she will survive this tempest. She has never felt so alive as in these moments.
We ride together.
Just like we both did that fateful day and did not survive an actual ride. I have an eternity to make up for a careless mistake, and she continues to take me to heaven.
I like Neil Gaiman’s book The Graveyard and I like the idea of ghosts being their normal selves – going about making friends and raising a family. Why not two lovers having all the time in the world to enjoy and explore each other?
I had a whole group of photos to share from my graveyard excursions (of which there are many), that I was going to insert some thoughts into. But sadly, while working on this, my computer crashed, broke, and refuses to turn back on. It died.
I love graveyards because of the history and the art. I love learning a gated grave off in the corner may have been a prostitute or criminal, and fenced-in so that their spirit cannot escape, or so that they can be further separated from the “proper people”. We still struggle with appropriate society norms – but fortunately don’t go to the extremes that you can learn about in historical graveyards. There is a graveyard in Old Town, San Diego, where researchers write an entire life story once they learn it and post it next to the tombstone – I love that especially. Sadly, they paved a road over part of the graveyard, and some of the markers are in the road to indicate a person’s plot – my husband refuses to drive down that street, and will cross and take another direction to avoid it. When we first met, he refused to walk in graveyards, but has since compromised that stance when we travel together – it still makes him slightly uncomfortable. He used to view my fascination as morbid, and now realizes that I learn -and enjoy learning-so much from exploring, that it uses a more visual representation to a family – or battleground. Graveyards, and the stories they tell, fascinate me, but they do not turn me on. I would never want to have sex in one, and my husband would certainly never be willing to.
Despite my love of exploring these places, my family doesn’t have a burial ground area, nor even a common location to visit our dead – for example, my mother’s ashes were spread at her favorite place. I hope to have my ashes spread at her location as well, as it is still my favorite place despite all the traveling and exploring I’ve done as an adult.