by Maureen Louise Reardon

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She finally gave up. Sleep was not to be her companion, despite the numbers on the alarm clock. They were reminding her that she was closer to a new day, than to the old one she had abandoned hours earlier.

It was hot as hell. The sorry excuse for an air conditioner, was sending a weak breeze, that seeped from the slots on top of the droning beast. It was not any cooler than the air hanging motionless in the room. One small consolation crossed her mind, at least the beast was rendering air that moved. The latch on the window had refused to yield to her efforts to unfasten it.

Prisoner. She was a prisoner in a hotel room, ten floors off the ground, sentenced to die a slow death by melting.

The exertion of yanking at the stubborn window unleashed a lone bead of sweat from the rear of her jaw. A bead that trickled down her neck, collecting with several more, that were forming in the hollow at her throat. Once more, she gave up.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, resting her forehead on the window.

The glass was cool by comparison, prompting her to roll her head slowly from side to side. In a few short seconds; even that smooth cool surface, succumbed to the damp body heat, radiating from her nakedness.

Casting a sideways glance toward the clock, she watched absently as minutes slipped away. The growing pool of moisture along her collarbone broke free. Her chest rose as she yielded to a satisfying yawn, that resulted more from boredom, than lack of sleep. The tiny stream of moisture worked its way down her chest. Skewing left, it followed the curve of her right breast. With her head still resting on the windowpane, she watched the droplet struggle downward. The ultra fine baby hairs on her sweltering skin, challenged the journey.

She could not remember being so hot. Immediately, she knew that that thought was a lie, a blatant lie. She had been hotter, much hotter; soaking in a hard earned sweat, only a few hours previously.

Gradually, images crowded past her boredom, casting aside her discomfort. They replaced it with the welcome distraction of the memory of the touching of her breasts. An uncontrolled shiver up her spine, as her nipples hardened at this welcomed recollection. A smile of remembered satisfaction curled at the edges of her mouth, as she drew a fingertip across the lingering bead of sweat that hung suspended on the inside of her right breast. The meaty part of her thumb grazed the taut nugget of an extended nipple, sending another shiver through her body, this one centered in the depths of her. She got out her dildo, hoping to feel the rhythm, as she had before. In and out pounding and stoking, her to the core of her being.

"Yes," she whispered to no one, completely lost in a rush of fresh thoughts, "you can take me like that. Take me. Make me beg for it to end... and then dare you to stop... all in the same breath."

She squeezed her breast between the flat of her fingertips and the heel of her hand, pulling away, pinching her nipple; imagining his lips doing the very same thing to her. The heat in the room closed tighter upon her flesh, forcing more moisture out onto her skin. It did not matter now. The heat was no longer an aggravation. Now it was part of a memory. It had become a by product of her recollection of me and our lust. The heat had become a driver that enabled, private lust to come to a full boil deep within her body, glowing with moist evidence of her arousal. The heat was like a lingering caress.

Her hands slid down across her belly erasing the tear, like tracks of perspiration that preceded her lusty reverie. This was the she craved. One hand slipped between her legs to cup the essence of her, holding herself just as I had done, not moving, lifting her upward with a pressure that was my brand of perfection. She thought back to my whisper, teasing her at the edge of her hearing, telling her how much I liked to hold her like that, softly describing how I could feel her swelling ever so slightly, the lubrication of her want melting in the palm of my hand.

The ache was back. Every nerve ending inside of her swollen clit ached for the sensation of my agonizingly touch. Every nerve waited to be sprung. Every nerve waited to release the waves of ecstasy that would crash inward driving her lust, lifting her to the highest place, transporting her into the private delirium of complete submission. As I always dominated her.

She pulled her head from the glass, turning away to face the empty room. Her hand was still buried in her crotch, the other kneading first one breast, then the other. Urgency arrived without ceremony, drawing her toward the bed. Stumbling with a drunken desire she dropped onto the mattress, rolling onto her back, one leg propped up with her heel digging into the crumpled sheets, the other planted firmly on the floor. The hand that held her soaking clit moved just as I would move my hand.

The secret smile from knowing of my presence, orchestrated the pleasure spread across her face. Her middle two fingers dipped into the slicker warmth of my favorite place, spreading her swollen lips, and sliding with a premeditated slowness toward the tiny pearl that begged for the tip of my tongue. Her fingertips became mine. With robotic precision she emulated the tender oral attention she craved.

Pushing back onto the bed, she thrashed within the grip of a private passion, arching into self inflicted manipulations, that emulated the pleasures only I could deliver. She fought the urge to complete herself, and then, just as I would sense her want for normalcy, she denied herself the gratification her body screamed for, silently. I would never let her settle for anything less than me, never permit her to invest anything less than everything she could possibly stand.

She continued, her journey spiraled upward, building slowly, layer upon layer of pleasing sensation, muscles flexing and contracting in a rhythm that spelled a most certain finality. She rose up, her back arching, her head thrust back into the depths of the pillow. Both shoulders were lifting away from the sheets. It was her private moment.

Ecstasy approached. She froze in breath and in heartbeat. She was poised to push away from the edge. To push away, and soar away into that special place, into my being.

The ineffective air conditioner droned onward, oblivious to her transition. From suffering an oppressive heat, to embracing the implications of accepting it, in the light of different circumstances. She collapsed back onto the feather pillow that cradled her head, hair matted across her forehead, soaked in her passion.

The bed smelled of sex. She pulled the extra pillows close to her and breathed in my scent. The numerals on the clock confirmed that my departure was a mere four hours ago. The satisfying ache in the center of her being contradicted the passing of time, arguing that I had never left.