She
dozed and rewoke within his inability to settle there beside her in the bed,
watching as his furious attempt to assimilate the day previous slowly wore him
out.
ache1:
Oh my poor cowboy. Can’t you sleep?
his
need of it so desperate as to be the very deterrent that kept him conscious.
Too
tired herself to kiss him with any real heat, still she pressed her lips to his
face feeling the unshaved flesh slack with its inebriate exhaustion, and
knowing this too a gesture rendered sexless by her own fatigue she slid her
hand down inside his pyjama trousers hoping nonetheless to afford him sleep as
a by-product of release. When he had grown amongst the warmth of her fingers
her mouth began its slow crawl down his body.
Between
them they had an unspoken agreement established across their months together,
that prior to or concomitant with her jaw registering the prefatory spasm of
his ejaculate’s imminence would be his own gasped announcement of same, at
which she might choose to have him come inside her, (and if so, to swallow or
spit him out, perhaps after to raise her mouth to his and pass back into his
body that which it had only just relinquished) or into a sort of catcher’s mitt
of linked fingers and cupped palms formed and held before her face.
But
here, haunted by the Christmas cake sick in the kitchen below, Brother Skunk
lay conscious of regulating his every breath, wilfully misleading her as to the
proximity of his climax until releasing himself into the awful sudden sound
from beneath the sheets as her throat gagged to close him out.
In
one movement she was standing bedside to spatter the wallpaper with the
vehement emptying of her mouth, leaving the room before he could even think of
what words to say much less give them voice.
It
was with his own mouthwash in the bathroom that she rinsed and gargled, and
these the last sounds he heard before finally surrendering himself to the
morning’s early hour and the longed for loss of consciousness.
