Note: I was wondering what Maud might have written to make her living. What were the words that were full of want? I know I've changed my tense. I did it on purpose to symbolise the process of thought to realisation.
Feedback: Archaeobard
Want
By Archaeobard I imagined you on those nights when you had taken to your room, lying cold in your narrow bed. I imagined that you had thought of me and stirred. I imagined that I would creep and come to your door. I would listen, perhaps for a creak, perhaps for a sigh. I would hold my breath, trembling, until I could stand it no more.
I would raise my hand to my lips, remembering the feel of you. I would close my eyes and draw my fingers to my breast. I would shudder and grow hot, for you were close and warm. I would feel it rise upon me, the carnal nature of it; the thing that must be sated. So I push lightly at your door. It swings, soundless, inward. Like me, you have a light, a small candle stub, burning beside you. It silhouettes you. Your lips are parted, your breath stirs the air. I stand and watch. I watch the sleep on you; the softness. The counterpane is drawn back; your nightgown gaping. I see the flesh and I touch my own in response. It is heated and fiery. It is lustful. My eye droops and my breath catches. I take a step in my bare feet. I pass the threshold. I seize the scent of you, your hair, your skin and I breathe you in. That breath draws me further, closer. If you wake now you would see me standing like a ghost. You do not wake. I reach out my hand and caress the air before me. In some way it holds your form. I step closer still until I can feel the stir about you. I sink down upon the ground. The floor boards are hard and cold. I sit for a moment, then it takes me and my hand stretches to you. I move a wisp of hair. You turn you head. I retract in fear, but then, then there is amazement. Your eyes open, you smile in half sleep. You smile at me. There is a kind of triumph to your gaze. And I can see it, the wanting in you. It makes me bold. It makes me wanton. I rise up, I touch you; my fingers to your face. I have removed my gloves for they are clinical and I wish to be raw. You shiver, you smile. I move. I come to you, closer, creeping closer. I kiss you; grasp your lips with mine. There is heat, there is lust. There is the fury of desire. I clutch at you. Your lips open, I probe, I push with my tongue. I touch. You suck in your breath. You draw me to you. I frown; I shudder, for this has found me. It has fuelled my fire, stoked it with bellows. The kiss breaks. I say, "I want you." You gasp, shudder. I feel it as my words move over you. I feel it for what it is. You kiss me then with force; a primal thing. I come, clamber upon your narrow bed. My hands are on you. I need. I grasp your flesh with lips. I taste the salt of you, dry. Your skin drags on my tongue, my fingers. Still lower I descend to the quick of you. You moan. You writhe. You cry out and clutch at your bed. I look up and catch your eye. There is truth. There is fear. There is a question, a pleading. I understand it. I know it, feel it in myself. I delve. You are hot and slick, running with warmth. I taste you, savour you, like nectar. You jolt and clutch still harder yet I am enflamed. I tease, slowly, hotly. My tongue touches; it shrieks in you. You are rigid; then moving against me, now rising, holding yourself up. You cry out, a shout in darkness, grow stiff and then flaccid, curling. I crawl, I hold you, whisper. I kiss at your neck, your jaw, and your lips. I say I love you. I say I need you. I say I cannot live unless you say the same. You answer. The End