• ronak_bafna 6w

    The mist on the windows makes it hard to look outside. And she just sits there at the edge of the bed just with her socks on, opposite to a mirror. Her white body is wet and steam is rising from the skin. Her wet hair has mercilessly settled down on her bosoms, ending inches above her nipples. She stares at her reflection and her nakedness makes her smile fade away, ever so slowly, like a sunset that is drowning—you know it is there, but not for long.
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    She is the kind who is compassionate during morning coffees and ruthless underneath the sheets by unmistakably beautiful and still midnights.
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    She is the kind who likes to fuck with windows open on a rainstorm and wanders around in bra and panties during a blizzard.
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    She is the kind who notices the warmness of the sunlight in an abandoned room and wears her three-year-old tattered sweater when going out for a walk.
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    She is the kind who likes it when I rush strawberries between her thighs and nibble my lips all over the delight.
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    She is the kind who whispered the language of the soul through intimacy and noises about the broken button of her shirt during the foreplay.
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    She is the kind who is gentle with piano but has reckless fingers between her legs.
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    She is the kind who hates the taste of whiskey but swigs down a bottle while partying.
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    She is what everyone thinks is wrong with the society, but she is everything right to The One.
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    Every Thursday and Saturday—the days when we make love—we explore new possibilities about ourselves before making love. Tonight, she is exploring herself, for nakedness is chaos, and I am aching to have this chaos inside me.
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    I step forward and we sit together on the bed, looking in the mirror. And I whisper to her with a sincere smile, “There is something terribly sad about a cozy night where two people are not making love."

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    She is the kind who likes it when I rush strawberries between her thighs and nibble my lips all over the delight.