slight, grazed me to the quick, and all I had to do—without interrupting the sucking—was to rock back and forth, back and forth, over his open hand while I climbed to that edge from which the body aches to plummet. I plummeted. I shot forward until my head came to rest at his feet. After a while I turned around and nuzzled his hand, only to discover a slickness on his fingers, so like the slickness on mine. Did our liquids also taste alike?
They did. I wanted him to taste them both. I wiped his wet hand on one of my breasts and brought that nipple up to his mouth, where I pressed it against his lips. Then I lowered my other breast down to the moisture at the tip of his sex, rubbing it around before doing what I’d done with the other breast.
The thirst was so acute now I could barely swallow. I placed my mouth over his, probing deep with my tongue—over and under his, all along his teeth, between his gums and lips. His breath was musty, his taste sour-sweet. The combination made my mouth water. I went for his ears now, first one and then the other, licking along the curves and dents and into the hole, to fetch up the bitterish taste of wax. I moved down to the armpits, burying my nose in the pungent thicket of hair; down over his chest and belly to lick his navel; and down into the depths of his genitals.
I’d never stopped to lick the sac before. I trailed my tongue over it now, over the ridged hairy skin, before lifting it to lick under as well, down the line running into his crack. I stopped at its rim, to catch my breath; then, lifting his legs at the knees,parting the cheeks, I plunged my tongue right down into the recess, as deep as it would go.
A dark bitter taste exploded through my palette; the taste of a poisonous plant, perhaps—some wild, inedible onion. The discovery was dizzying. I wanted to subject him to something comparable. That’s when I moved up to straddle his face. I faced him on my knees, shifting them farther and farther apart until the very core, the
very
heart of that hidden cleavage between my legs was split wide open and planted squarely on his mouth. Now we were engaged in a long wet kiss; it was my lips, I should say—those other lips—that were doing the kissing as they smeared their saliva onto his.
Taste!
I said, pressing down harder on my haunches, circling faster, kissing deeper. I was dying of thirst. I was dying, dying … and in the throes of the shudders that sent me sprawling across his face, I glimpsed what it was like, that letting go and slipping away from the surge of inseparable pleasure and pain.
After a while my skin prickled and I sensed, before I saw, the light I was lying in, a light that chilled rather than warmed me. I opened my eyes onto the full face of the moon, filling my window, staring me down.
I picked up my sarong and tied it around my chest. Outside, I stood on the veranda briefly to absorb the night: the indigo shadows and shapes of the
kampong
roofs, the crooked palms and fuzzy shoreline of the sea. How still it was—not a breeze, not a drizzle to break the spell and let the monsoon in. Those yellow flowers had bloomed and withered in a burst of false promise.
The moon was not so close now; it had retreated to a distance from which it shed its path of light. The path led directly from the stairs of the veranda, down the incline, in a straight line to the sea. I set out without the slightest hesitation; nothing seemed more natural or more inevitable than walking its beam. I followed it until the sand turned wet underfoot. From there the path glittered like a welcoming carpet rolled out, in my honor, across the surface of the sea. I took my first step into the waves. It was easy, it was nothing, I could feel the slightest undertow pulling me in.
But on the threshold of that walk into the waves I turned—I don’t know why—to take a few steps along the beach … and found the beam trailing me. I stopped and turned in the other direction—and
They did. I wanted him to taste them both. I wiped his wet hand on one of my breasts and brought that nipple up to his mouth, where I pressed it against his lips. Then I lowered my other breast down to the moisture at the tip of his sex, rubbing it around before doing what I’d done with the other breast.
The thirst was so acute now I could barely swallow. I placed my mouth over his, probing deep with my tongue—over and under his, all along his teeth, between his gums and lips. His breath was musty, his taste sour-sweet. The combination made my mouth water. I went for his ears now, first one and then the other, licking along the curves and dents and into the hole, to fetch up the bitterish taste of wax. I moved down to the armpits, burying my nose in the pungent thicket of hair; down over his chest and belly to lick his navel; and down into the depths of his genitals.
I’d never stopped to lick the sac before. I trailed my tongue over it now, over the ridged hairy skin, before lifting it to lick under as well, down the line running into his crack. I stopped at its rim, to catch my breath; then, lifting his legs at the knees,parting the cheeks, I plunged my tongue right down into the recess, as deep as it would go.
A dark bitter taste exploded through my palette; the taste of a poisonous plant, perhaps—some wild, inedible onion. The discovery was dizzying. I wanted to subject him to something comparable. That’s when I moved up to straddle his face. I faced him on my knees, shifting them farther and farther apart until the very core, the
very
heart of that hidden cleavage between my legs was split wide open and planted squarely on his mouth. Now we were engaged in a long wet kiss; it was my lips, I should say—those other lips—that were doing the kissing as they smeared their saliva onto his.
Taste!
I said, pressing down harder on my haunches, circling faster, kissing deeper. I was dying of thirst. I was dying, dying … and in the throes of the shudders that sent me sprawling across his face, I glimpsed what it was like, that letting go and slipping away from the surge of inseparable pleasure and pain.
After a while my skin prickled and I sensed, before I saw, the light I was lying in, a light that chilled rather than warmed me. I opened my eyes onto the full face of the moon, filling my window, staring me down.
I picked up my sarong and tied it around my chest. Outside, I stood on the veranda briefly to absorb the night: the indigo shadows and shapes of the
kampong
roofs, the crooked palms and fuzzy shoreline of the sea. How still it was—not a breeze, not a drizzle to break the spell and let the monsoon in. Those yellow flowers had bloomed and withered in a burst of false promise.
The moon was not so close now; it had retreated to a distance from which it shed its path of light. The path led directly from the stairs of the veranda, down the incline, in a straight line to the sea. I set out without the slightest hesitation; nothing seemed more natural or more inevitable than walking its beam. I followed it until the sand turned wet underfoot. From there the path glittered like a welcoming carpet rolled out, in my honor, across the surface of the sea. I took my first step into the waves. It was easy, it was nothing, I could feel the slightest undertow pulling me in.
But on the threshold of that walk into the waves I turned—I don’t know why—to take a few steps along the beach … and found the beam trailing me. I stopped and turned in the other direction—and
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