Alone in the big bed upstairs Cecilia gazes at the ceiling and listens to the crows rattling about on the roof. She thinks of the strong hands that built it, that fitted notch and post and tongue and groove, and thus thinks of not just ceilings and roofs and crows but hands and notches, posts, tongues and grooves, and she groans and presses her thighs together under the single white sheet and mutters crossly to herself.
Why? Why does she do this? This man, her husband, her husband for chrissakes. The sheer unbordered love he gives, the ache under her ribs she feels, the skipping, tripping joy – why is that not enough? He and her children and her job – the job that mostly pays for all of this. Why is that not enough? She sighs and, idly stirring a finger through her muff, wonders, not for the first time, or the last, just what the hell is wrong with her.
He’s gone of course, a simple quiet exit, plus children delivered to preschool and now somewhere on the road – she looks at her phone – probably by now at sea, heading out to his island and its many, mute, inglorious dead..she imagines his crinkled eyes screwed tight against the glare and spray, his beard whipped by the wind and grins at her absent, loving pirate and drives her paired fingers home, right in, and arches against herself. Soaking, briny, slippery, hot.
Lost now to the pulses of longing she flings the covers down and spreads herself wide, letting the cool morning air caress her as well as her hands, her spreading, probing, grasping hands.
She reaches for the nightstand, the cold tusk of glass, her favourite of the smaller toys because it so sweetly apes his cock and she gasps as the cold glass slides in and clenches hard at it and imagines her pirate, there, out at sea, standing in the bow, thighs flexing against the swell and the onrush of the boat. There’s a small seat there in the sharp prow, a few narrow planks, a triangle, just sized for her. She sweeps around him and sits, cold spray soaking her backside, her thighs as she spreads herself, legs either side of him and tugs down his shorts. She pulls him free and two, three sharp pumps on his lovely cock and then she sticks him right in and his thrusts and hers are in time with the boat and the swell and they are part of the sea and she looks down and sees their comingled hair the light and dark brown and she suddenly thinks of who’s driving the boat and how they must watch, dark eyes under dark brows seeing his arse and maybe, maybe his cock and her bright swollen –
Her release scatters the pottering crows and her cries carry with them as they caw and wheel and fly up, out and up, into the wild white sky.
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