|Frank Bernard Dicksee - Romeo and Juliet (1894)|
I lie in my bed, thinking of you in yours. I cannot sleep tonight. Tomorrow’s dawn is the very one we have been waiting for, the time of our promise. As the church bells ring for Lauds over the city squares, and the pigeons descend to bathe in the fountains in the first golden light of morning, we are to meet at the back door of the inn. I have already paid off the ostler and he will have two horses waiting for us.
I picture you lying in bed, your dark hair tumbled all around you upon the pillows. Your nightgown is loose and very thin, for I have seen the candle-light shine through its fine weave when you made your way up the stairs to your chamber, lingering to sweep the room with your eyes, searching me out for one last glimpse. I imagine it crumpled between your parted thighs, damp with the heat of your body, barely covering that precious mound of sweet dark curls where your fingertips linger. I imagine the silken weave puckered by the stiff points of your breasts and rising with each heave of breath, each stifled cry. You are impatient for our nuptials, my love, I know that. In the midst of all our secrets—our clandestine meetings in corridors and under stairways, our fortuitous attendances at feasts and masses together, the surreptitious dropping of notes and flowers—in the midst of all those, you never made any secret to me of your passion.
When we kissed, your fingers would graze across the tight fabric of my hose, seeking out the stiffening flesh and provoking it to indignities. You’d seize my hand and, tugging open the stiff cordage at your bosom, press my fingers to the hot soft breasts beneath your shift, until it seemed I would catch fire from sheer joy. Once, indeed, you knelt and let me rub my hard cock in the sweet cleft between those two pillowy delights, encouraging me with kisses until I flooded forth on their heavenly spheres. Then, giggling, you laced up your linens and your wools over the dew I’d shed, letting it run down the vale of your cleavage. And I knew that all day you would carry me around with you like a secret kiss, my scent imprinted on your flesh.
Do you remember the day I came into the room while you were sitting on the windowsill conversing with your cousins in the courtyard below? You gestured me to your side, and as you bent over the deep stone sill, your arms braced—even as you laughed and chattered with your cousins—I knelt in the shadows, out of sight of the window, and ran my hand up the inside of your thighs all the way to the sacred cleft at their head. I stroked your puss, the softest and sleepiest of small animals, until it woke in my hand and sucked my fingers into its wetness. There are no words for how hot and tight and sweet that creature was, nor how wet it ran at my caresses, until your words and your laughter grew breathless and I think even your bone-headed cousins must have wondered at the little squeaks and sighs you made, and the sudden thrilling yelp that you blamed upon your kitten clawing your ankle.
The memories, and the thought of you now, have made sleep impossible for me. It is still dark, but my cock stands in premature salute of a dawn that has not yet come. I want to run to you now my love—your balcony is not so very high, and the climb not so very difficult; I’ve considered it often and often. I want to steal you away, but first I want to find you in your bed, muzzy-headed with sleep and appetite, and I want to kiss your plump lips and part your soft thighs and put the my iron-hard share to the furrow between them—then plough you until we both cry out.
I can’t sleep. It is still dark, but I can’t wait. So I will get up from my bed and come to you. From this muddy ditch behind the tower where your cousins threw me after they cut my throat. From my bed, my grave—to find you, and to keep my promise.
|Oh, What's That in the Hollow? - Edward Robert Hughes (1851-1914)|