Image via Pixabay
My thoughts on geography and maps and distance are all over the place. On one level, once I saw this week’s theme for Wicked Wednesday, I immediately thought of the miles and time spent apart from John Brownstone….
Love Doesn’t Understand Maps
Does it sound odd to know that when John Brownstone and I were in a long distance relationship, I felt lucky that we only had 440 miles between us? We were in different time zones but at least we were in the same state…that’s what I told myself.
The reality is, though, that the amount of distance matters less than that there is distance. When you can’t be together as often as you want, 50 miles feels as impossible as 500…or 5000.
I’ve always loved the internet for it’s ability to connect people so easily. Don’t get me started on how much I dislike it for fostering so much disconnection from each other.
Missing people you haven’t thought of since you were a child? The internet helps you connect. Wondering if anyone understands your illness, disorder, sadness, or life? They’ve probably got a blog you can read. Come across the one person who makes your soul do back-flips of joy? They probably live in another time zone.
Some people can’t handle long distance relationships. And that’s okay. Those of us who managed it aren’t better or stronger than anyone else. We were fortunate across to find the person we’d walk through fire for – while also having a personality that could handle the distance.
Love is funny like that. It doesn’t care about lines on a map, time zones, work schedules, future plans, or what we think we want. When it hits, it hits. When it’s the right person, it’s the right person. And some of us, for the right person, will make it work across the vastness of the planet. And all I had to do was survive 440 miles.
He Maps My Pleasure
So that first part was on my mind a day or so ago, and then there was this morning…
The alarm bleeped and blared at us. I came up through the fog of my dreams, confused and disoriented. Before he crawled out of bed, he cuddled against me. His warmth seeped into my bones. I could stay like this forever.
But, of course, once he becomes conscious, his dark caffeinated mistress calls to him.
He stumbled to the bathroom, and I rolled over to turn on the lamp. I stretched and waited for him to notice me as he left the bathroom.
I’m not long and lean by any stretch of the imagination, but I know the image I present in a dimly lit room as I extend my full length. Breasts lifted. Nipples hard. Back arched. Come and get me.
And he did.
His tongue descended on my nipple as his fingers plunged between my legs. Already soaked and squelching (what had I been dreaming about?!), he knows the ley lines of my pleasure. Nipples and clit connect in a direct path of mystery and pleasure.Maps are unnecessary He’s travelled this road so many times, he can find it blind.
In the near-dark of the morning, he did.
I stuttered a plea for my orgasm. No answer. He refused release my nipple and instead moved his fingers furiously, as if daring me not to come. Two climaxes later, I wondered if this is how we would leave it.
Until he released me only to push my body over, grip my hips with both hands, and sink his cock deep. We’d mapped my pleasure, now it was time to seek his.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! It’s so weird to have two competing thoughts on the same topic. Neither felt long enough for their own post, but they both stuck in my brain. Maps, distance, geography — sometimes it’s on a big scale of miles and continents. And sometimes, it’s about the map we have in our minds of the person we desire. Looking for more wickedness? You know where to go…