411. In Warmth

Em nestled to Trev's side, her breath warm as sun across the plain of his chest. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, her ear suctioned upon his nippled bosom, his heart serenading, a private performance, with a rhythmic chorus. Her hair smelled of almond and images of vernal meadows and gushing pregnant springs, laughing and giggling down the mountain side, seemed as real in his mind as the head upon his torso.

Yul rolled to her side and Rog wrapped his stoutness to her conforming backside, tongue in groove, murmuring sighs as signal and standard. White stains of salt lay as evidence of labor exchanged, the warm commerce heeded, and Rog licked away like a tomcat grooming in the warmth of windowed sun. Moan as purr, Yul lifted one leg, and with a rotation of hip, as hand slides into glove, eyes closed, lips pursed and warmness radiated from loin to cheek.

With a wave of her hand, her quarters drew silent and Kyra, in melanic leather sat her melanic chair before the melanic cosmos. Silence sounded, pulsed, with a cold warmth as if the universe was breathing, a parental witness to the play before its stage. Closing her eyes, she let what was be, and as her shoulders dropped so did the baggage of her conscience, and where breathing was labored, lightness flowed. Listening, she heard mother ocean blanket the whey sand of Valla with an azure argosy as scintillating as if the stars themselves were washed ashore (and she marveled at how the sight in her mind was not so unlike the sight before her window). As the breath, wave upon gentle wave reached and enveloped her porcelain toes with the soft warmth of a mother's arms, the sea as rocking chair, melodic like a lullaby. With each slow steady practiced breath, Kyra felt the cacophony of concerns settle as wayward shells burrowing in the sand and the water once cloudy became clear.