He’s taken these first three days of the week as vacation time, but will be going back to work tomorrow and Friday. Then he’ll have the weekend with me, before I return home Sunday night.
Each day he’s planned some sort of excursion. Monday it was a drive into the mountains and a makeshift picnic lunch. Tuesday he took me a tour-visit of several construction sites he manages. I know it was to show me off — “this is the girl I’m doing this week” — but I didn’t mind. Today, Wednesday, he’s planning a drive west to Palisades, home of the famous Palisades peaches, although this has been a disaster year for the crop. Still, I’m sure we’ll find some peach jam.
These things are faintly romantic, although I’m sure he doesn’t intend them that way, just as variations and respites from his sexual times with me. Apparently, even he needs time to replenish, though it never seems so.
Ours is a kind of physical, not emotional, magnetism. We sit on a blanket eating bought sandwiches, yet even in this time-out, we are drawn to each other. Our sitting distance is just three feet apart, yet it takes energy and willpower not to jump the space between and snap together like horseshoe magnets mating.
Some might say I doth protest too much about it not being romantic with him, but that’s not what this is, nor what he wants, and probably not what I want, although I admit I get confused about that sometimes.
This is a matter of carnal memory. He remembers my breasts in his hands and I remember his cock in my pussy. When we wrap our flesh around the other’s flesh, we mold to that. When we disentangle and leave our sex, the carnal memory keeps us in that shape and feeling for awhile: our bodies remember and assume the other’s flesh present. And so I still feel him inside me — his thickness and ooze — as I go about life.
So these day excursions are sugared with sex, not literal but remembered.
When he took me to his construction sites and showed me off, I stood there in my skater skirt and thin sleeveless top staring into the sun and the eyes of a half dozen construction workers. I was introduced to them one by one, my body still pulsing in the memory of Kevin inside me from just earlier. I felt freshly fucked, which I was, and which the workers no doubt could tell from my blush and burn.
Today he will drive us to Palisades in his truck, through mountains and valleys and Colorado hinterland. He will have to keep his hands on the wheel, but likely he will remember this morning when his hands were free to roam. And I, underneath my thin white summer dress, will certainly feel the traces of his fingers exploring parts of my wilderness.