Farther than the Door

Your panties are still bunched in the corner, by the door. Delicate, lacy lines, designed to compliment your curves, fold over one another in a loose, tangled pile on the floor.

If they could speak, they could tell of how I greeted you at the door when you came home. They could record the rising rate of you pulse, and how you got wet when I kissed you before the door was even fully closed. They would remember how smooth your legs were under my hands when I gripped your panties firmly and slipped them off. They were lost in the dark, and I was more concerned with the eager sounds coming from you, low in your throat.

If they could see, they would have watched the two of us, pressed together, braced against the wall. They could see the way my fingernails drew pink lines across your skin, and the look that crossed your face at the feel of them. They could describe the way your back arched against me as I pressed into you, your delicious curves flexing back on me, the two of us still feet from the door. Lying in the languid shadow we shared, your panties had quite the view, at least until we moved to the bedroom.

Your panties couldn’t hear the sounds that we made there together though. They missed your sighs and needy moans, escalating to excited whining and desperate, panting gasps. They missed my low groaning curses and growls. They missed the sounds we both made against the walls and the creaking of the bed.

They remained where I left them, and never made it much farther than the door.

-J