Doctor Monroe and the Social Taboo: (Or Mentally Forbidden?)

Chapter 1: Week Two

Murky brown eyes. Deep Murky brown eyes. They stared at me, haunt me even. The room’s sky was a pale white, almost the shade of a snow. I gaze into those murky waters. The tinge of hazel drawing me in, revealing an ocean of walnut and the wisps of chocolate. Deep Murky eyes. Waves whirl over me wrapping me in delicate hug, not wanting to let to go. I let them. They feel passionate and surprising and leave me breathless, my throat rasping for air even though I take none. The tinge blossoms outwards, its leaflets erupting with open arms, shining into mine. They sparkle and shimmer within the darkness of his pupil, glimmering. I can’t look away. It is then then I realize…

I am nude.                    

Exposed. Revealing. Unhidden. Open.

Panic sieves through me as the realisation wavers like a subtle breeze. The rasping stops. I feel my fingertips slide ever so slowly up the side of my kneecap and patter gently along my thigh, I shouldn’t be exposed. I shouldn’t be uncovered. They grow closer. Closer. Closer still. Those murky eyes leave. Dart. The shimmer cut dead. The waves vanish from view. The flower dies. I watch as his eyes gaze slowly at my fingertips. With a sudden return I see the oceans have become beggars in the wasteland of drought. I freeze. I want those oceans. I need those waves to consume me again. Something inside me screams for it. The worms upon my thigh stop dead. They move no more. I see his fair fingers rise. My heart pounds in silence. Slowly the five angels glide across, weightless and free, they stop land and settle upon my skin.  

Something shocks though me and I have to resist the urge to yelp. To scream. The angels patter as pebbles upon my arm slowly, a buzz surging through me, nothing I had felt before.

Interesting.

I feel his skin on mine…so warm, with his gently dripping patter it invites me in, wraps its lips upon mine and holds me there. I cannot move. Slowly but ever so carefully, they descend. Each spark against me ripples through as orgasms of pleasure course through my veins.

Touch.

The air suddenly seems…fresher…

Touch.

My ears detect my faint trumping hair…

Touch.

My fingers begin to tremble, pleasure and purity screaming throughout me.

Touch.

His murky eyes wallow into mine. The hazel oceans have returned. The flower blossoms ever brighten and the chocolate glimmers, begging me to taste. The angels finally reach my knuckles, I feel each sensation as they roll over and into those stern hills. As the tips drag agonizingly slow across them, dripping down, down, down, to my fingertips. Grazing over the glass as if they were nothing. The second wave hits. He reaches my thigh.

Boom.

This isn’t an orgasm. This is an ejaculation of pleasure…of senses. Although my body remains perfectly still I feel each nook and cranky spasm madly, churning and melding. Each vein vibrating as his angels play them at his will, each stroke sending a shivers through me. The angels dip, they roll over my thigh, soft and ever so careful. A sudden jolt rushes through me as his fingers dig, clawing into my tenderloins. I arch my back in a painting of pleasure and pain as I feel his free hand. The free hand hauls me in close, it latches upon my back around my waist and gently and ever so gently draws me in.

I watch the murky waters study me, as my eyes are drawn to cherry red. The watered flowers whom have blossomed, ripe and ever so ready. I whimper inside as they call me ever so close, his hand leaning in as without call mine does the same. A chorus of no’s erupt and cackles and screams, but they make no sound compared to the one that does not protest. And for once…

I listen.

I can feel his breath graze gently against. There is no I.

We meld. Instantaneous. My eyes turn black as I feel those flowers open and their leaflets blossom, flushing passionately. The stigma melds with mine, dancing and flickering over, grinding and mauling together. They tingle and they tango. The shake and they stir. They sculpture and they paint. Then…he draws away… I feel the stigma slowly take its leave, the leaflets slowly dawning into themselves.

I don’t want him to leave.

Neither does the boy inside.

At first his screams are small and helpless, they mean and hear nothing. The stigma decrescendos as his crescendos. Pressure. His tongue leaves my lips, the cherry shading into view.

Pressure.

My flower feels cold, tasteless. Empty. The drought returns.

Boom.

The boy lets his crescendo reach peak as I ripple my eyes open, breath heavy, pounding and pouring into my chest, wanting to escape. The waves of bed sheets rolls in conformity as I pulse upwards, my cold palms suddenly resting centred, the soaked dampness of the surrounding sheets. Instinctively my right hand moves up and curls through my hair, each strand being knock back, conforming to a wave fashion. It pauses and I let my fingers fall, they slide quickly down my skin. My face.

They feel nothing like his.

Something inside my falters as the shivers don’t return, and I question its choice? Why? I mean…why did I dream of him…I was married once…I knew what sex I liked…and whom I wanted…well…did I…?

At that moment, I closed my eyes. Unopened them. And I let that smile cross my lips. Thank god my wife was not present. She did not see. Thank god my eyes were closed, so she could not see what I saw. I let the ripples cross my cheeks, small hills of hellish happiness. For it was what I was that brought my veins to shivers, my fingers to patterns, and a chorus of voices begging for cleansing.

A tinge of Hazel.