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Thursday, 24 April 2014

Home Sweet Home - Verse I



A Collaboration with Keeper of the Crimson Quill

I'm not sure exactly how I found myself in the place I reside now. An unfortunate turn of events rocked me to my foundations a year ago and my idyllic lifestyle was wiped out in favor of a far less picturesque existence. It's nothing more than a transitional stage that I find myself in now, back to my home base to recuperate and lick my wounds. I needed somewhere that I could focus on my writing, somewhere safe. 


I've long been disconnected from any apron strings, have been independent since I first moved out of the family home at twenty. So it was with heavy heart that I returned to the scene of my adolescence. That's not to say that the times I spent there weren't jovial, on the contrary, I was blessed with a happy upbringing and have many fond memories within these fortifications. However, once you have made that decision to forge your own path in life, it becomes uncontemplatable taking those two steps back.

There are times in your life when it is necessary just to bite the bullet and I masticated hard on the one fired my way. I relocated from my modernized century-old cottage to a poky little bed chamber, pallid and somewhat unwelcoming to a man fast approaching his forties. Fuck it, I had to do something right? It seemed fruitless renting and I had made the decision to cease employment and follow my dreams of becoming a writer. All my monies were temporarily unobtainable and only likely to be freed upon a lengthy divorce and I didn't want anything to compromise my goal. So I sucked it up.




Anyhoots, now I'm a prisoner in this place. Not that I'm getting it twisted, my time is largely my own here and right now it serves its purpose rather well. As a sexual creature though, I feel confined. Social outlets dried up on commencement of my return and I spend large portions of my day with myself and I as company. I'm self-sufficient so it suits the purpose but, to say that I don't crave the touch of another, would be to tell a rather hefty mistruth. That's what we all desire ultimately, to feel with our fingertips, kiss with our lips and fuck with whatever it is we're packing. I miss that. 
 
A few dusks passed something happened...something I felt as though I had no control over whilst, in the same moment, something I totally owned. The sun had ebbed away, leaving behind it chilly whispers as its moist rejoinder. I had been outside, grimacing like a cooler at a poker table, punishing myself as I invariably do by choosing such a frosty locale to scribe my prose. It was one of those deceptive evenings where it felt warmer than it actually was, leaving me chilled through to my marrow and none the wiser for a lengthy period. Eventually the penny dropped.
I'm more of a shower person ordinarily but my former walk-in cubicle had been replaced  with a modest wall-fitting which could best be described as working. Thus, the cramped bathtub was my destination this night and I spent forty five uncomfortable minutes semi-submerged and without so much as a rubber ducky as company. Naturally, at one juncture, attention turned to my soaping myself down and my cantankerous cock began to stir as it traditionally does in such circumstances. Always the opportunist. Nevertheless, something held me back from petting on this occasion...so I left him be.



Some of my least favorite moments in life are those few breath-stealing minutes after you evacuate your tub/shower of choice and re-acclimatize while you towel yourself dry. It has become customary for Keeper to slide naked under the divan while this adjustment takes place. This night I felt different to others, wired somehow...to what I had no idea but there was electricity present and furthermore it appeared my stiff prick was acting as some sort of conductor. I nestled back into my array of pillows, closed my eyes tight and reached down to grip my thumping member.

I couldn't shake this nagging feeling that I was in the presence of an unannounced other, could feel a mesh of essence in the air which was wholly intoxicating. I peeked out, just to ensure it wasn't my mother delivering a pile of ironed linen to my boudoir. Once satisfied, I kicked off the sheets and hoisted my nectarinal derriere from the mattress, my rigid cock standing sentinel-like at the apex.

There was an accompanying feeling also, that being of inhabiting another place entirely. The bite in the air had been replaced with a heady heat although my bedstead felt colder than usual against my bare pelt, as though were it fashioned from wrought iron. The baritone rumblings of approaching storms were in contrast to the clear dusk I had been presented with formerly. Indeed the whole integrity of the atmosphere had changed. In addition, I felt soothed by the mollifying sound of crickets, not an audio conducive to my current environment. Regardless of any discombobulation felt I had never before felt so utterly serene and, in the self same moment, aching to cum. 
 


I loved this house.  I had purchased it after my divorce for a dime and a song…well, a little more than that, but I couldn’t help feeling I had stolen it, the price was so low.  Yes it needed a little work but mostly cosmetic fixes.  The foundation was solid and the windows and doors opened and closed easily having been replaced decades after the settling had ceased on the hundred year old home.


It was nestled in the country, quiet and secluded and the second I stepped inside upon my first viewing, I felt welcomed by the old place.  It seemed to have a spirit that greeted me with warmth and assured me that this was home…the perfect setting for me to write my book during my year-long sabbatical from work. 


I needed the time to get my head straight.  The divorce had been bitter and nasty, a battle that had raged mercilessly in the court system for three years.  My lawyer had earned every cent that my ex was now paying him.  He had fought for me valiantly, winning me a settlement that allowed me to buy and fix this place up, not to mention that it also afforded me the privilege of taking a year off work without having to tighten my purse strings or pinch pennies.



So far though, I hadn’t yet written a word.  It seemed my tortured brain needed the break as well, and I had put my laptop aside and kept my hands busy with a trowel and paintbrush instead.  The colours I chose for the rooms were cheery, adding light and lifting my spirits.  The floors were made of good hardwood and I decided that only a light sanding was needed for them.  I wanted to keep some of the scuffs and scratches ingrained for character.


The hard physical work was having a positive effect on me.  My body was becoming lean and toned and the aches that throbbed in my muscles the first weeks of starting my renovations were dissipating, leaving me feeling strong and fit.  The fresh air and sunshine that kissed my skin as I worked weeding the gardens against the stone foundation gave me a golden glow that not only made me feel ten years younger but made me look it as well.



I was enjoying getting acquainted with my new home, often talking to it as I worked patching and painting, sanding and staining.  Tonight I ran my hand over the smoothly sanded trim like a lover’s caress, “You are so strong and beautiful.  Isn’t it Christine?”  My golden retriever responded by thumping her tail against the floor as she lay watching me,  thrilled that I was including her in the conversation.


The heat outside was very nearly unbearable.  The air above the asphalt driveway shimmering still even as the sun started to dip below the horizon casting hues of deep purple and orange into the clouds that were gathering in the evening sky.  I heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance.  The rain that was surely threatening would certainly be good to cool things but in the meantime, the humidity was causing beads of sweat to form at my nape under my long blonde hair and trickle down curling like a snake around my neck before continuing their path downward to be caught in my modest cleavage.



It had been a long, hot day and the heavy air was making me more tired than usual.  I decided to wash the heat and sweat off my skin under a cool shower and go to bed.  My skin still damp from the shower and with Christine at my heels as usual, I made my way through the house to my bedroom in the darkening night, not bothering to turn on the lights.  My long wet hair, clung to my back, giving me the fleeting sensation of being embraced.  I suddenly realized how much I missed being touched by another.  I stood at my bedroom window, my forehead against the glass and let my hand flutter over my apple shaped breast, relishing the feel of the soft tender flesh.  How I longed for a man's hand at this moment.  Yes, a man's hand, a man's lips, a man's touch.  I felt the moisture between my legs as an old familiar ache started building in my pussy and I let out a deep sigh, my breath fogging the glass in front of my face.


My temperature was rising again and decided I really didn't want to make myself hot all over again.  Letting my hand drop from my swelling tit and hardened nipple, I pushed away my desires.  I opened the window hoping for a breeze only to be disappointed by the stillness of the night.  Not even a breath to flutter the light sheer curtain that hung open beside the bedroom window.  The curtains were for decorative purposes only.  There seemed to be no need to close them at all as there were no prying eyes for miles. 


I had kept the wrought iron double bed that had been left in the house. It’s dark twisted metal was cold and hard yet like the rest of the house, it welcomed and comforted me.  Christine curled herself into the dog pillow I kept at the foot of the bed and I laid down on top of my down comforter, not wanting the weight nor the heat of even a thin cotton sheet covering me.   Completely naked, I rolled onto my back, closed my eyes and let the cricket’s night time serenade sing me to sleep.




For this story and more from Keeper of the Crimson Quill, please visit riversofgrue.com

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