This was mostly written a while back, after a trip to one of the London galleries. I was horny when I went in, even hornier when I came out, and this piece of flash fiction was my way of channeling that.
The air is always still here; it should feel sterile, but the paintings give it life, and as we walk into the gallery from the sticky, humid street, the arid coolness bathes our skin. But heat lingers, even as it evaporates from glistening temples and flushed cheeks; it lingers inside us, burning us up with every step we take.
It’s in the look you give me when I place my hand on the small of your back, underneath your shirt. It’s in the way my eyes wander distractedly over paintings that usually hypnotise me for hours; the way they return again and again to you walking beside me. And it’s in our desire, unspoken, but shimmering in the air between us, surrounding our bodies in a bubble of lust, hidden from the world outside it.
Every touch is accidental, yet seems pre-ordained. It’s been like this since we met: the quiet, pervasive awareness of mutual need, as if we will come apart unless we have each other soon. I step back and watch you move in front of me, tasting your sweat on my fingers where they have caressed the back of your shirt, and wanting to taste more of you. All of you.
You look over your shoulder at me, quizzically, playfully, and I smile. I’m thinking about tasting both of us now, my cum slick and hot over the lips of your cunt as I lick it from you, your juices mixed in with it. I wonder, do you know what I’m seeing in my mind? Do you know what’s getting my cock hard as I stand and watch you? You know – I think you know – and I walk towards you, our eyes never leaving each other until we’re standing so close that your hair brushes my face.
All that I desire is impure, forbidden, and I glance around me, surveying the pious faces that stare down at us, lovingly rendered studies in ecstatic devotion. I pull you against me, turning you so you can feel my cock pressing into your arse, conducting the heat between our bodies. I whisper, too loud for this silent hall, my voice thick and unsteady as we look up at a Renaissance nude, her eyes cast heavenward in search of the divine. “Do you see her? When I look at her, I see you. I see her expression on your face as you slide slowly onto me, curving your body around mine; taking me deep into the heart of you until we blur into one.”
There’s no space between us, no cool air to separate our bodies – even our clothing feels insubstantial, like it might just melt away. My fingers are on your arms, pinning them by your side, in the knowledge that if we move, we’ll fall into each other and never find our way out. I could fuck you right here on the hard marble floor and throw both caution and consequence to the wind; instead I hold you, every muscle tense, and feel the heavy press of desire warm my blood, until it feels like the summer storm is breaking around us. We will emerge into it, already drenched, and find our way to calmer waters, where the storms that rage inside us can be released.