Sunday, March 6, 2011

A dog called Paul

She took a handful of the water and spilled it on the little crop of fine hair that had so recently sprouted between her legs. The water chilled her, stung sharply, but she felt it drip over the folds of her skin and a delicious warmth continued to spread out from her vagina across the inside of her thighs. The skin between her legs was swollen. She noticed a tear in the flesh, a surface wound, nothing that could be internal damage. She noticed a swollen nub of flesh at the top of her little fissure. She poured more water onto it and the heat of her blood pushed out further into this tight thumb till the throbbing pressure inside was almost too much to bear. She touched it gently, tenderly with her ocean-chilled finger, rubbed at it, and was overcome by a rush of sleepy pleasure like the moments before sleep.

Leda stretched back on the rocks and felt the heat of the day soaking up into her shoulders. She stroked the little nub of skin and let her thighs fall languidly apart. The dog’s rough tongue startled her out of her stupor for a moment. Paul lapped at her and Leda lifted her hand away to let his tongue do it’s work. She remembered her cut feet and how his tongue had heeled her.

Her skin was torn. There was some blood and yet this tongue and the slipperiness of it’s saliva made it right again. She let the sleepiness overtake her, the sun on her naked skin, the sand and the smooth warm stones against her back. All this and everything coalescing in that one place, the swollen lips between her thighs and the rough but gentle tongue lapping there.

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