You shudder as your fingertips glide, circling and surrounding, probing and nudging, reporting to find you deliciously sticky, champagne-honey-wet, sodden, between your lissome, massage-oiled legs.
Once more you fight the urge to release the air that fills your chest, and as victory turns to defeat the oh-so very delicate sound grasps and rasps, clinging to stay inside you, to remain the life, the very breath, the only breath, the forever breath.
But knowing this must not, cannot be your last, and so that same sound, that mournful blue note, slips defeated from inside your risen chest, until slowly your body lowers and the fox fur weighs heavier on your hand encouraging your fingers to burrow and hide.
And the soulful “ahhh”, quickly becomes a new, fresh, ever deeper breath as the colors in your mind now swim with ever deeper desires, and your very soul cries with wanting.
Your left-hand returns, fingers furling around the pillow as you turn your head to your left, your eyes flickering open, cruelly confirming you’re alone, that the imagined mouth and tongue you want to feel nourishing against your breast isn’t there.
Consolatory, you connect to the golden light cascading across the chilled champagne glass, and you see a ballerina’s beauty in the bubbles dancing their way to the surface, escaping and releasing their tiny parcels of air into the room.
You stretch your senses, your hyper-vigilant ears, certain you can hear these tiny bubbles exhaling their own mellifluous melody as they burst and glisten upon the surface.
For a moment you mourn for them, knowing how if you could, you too would bathe in that same honeyed golden glow.
You would fill that bath with champagne, surround the edge with candles, and slip naked into the sticky golden juice.
You would feel these same bubbles dance against your toes, caress the soles of your feet, the tender of your calves, nudging up against the back of your knees, into the curve of your popliteal fossa.
Massaging your thighs, the warmth licking against your labium, tingling your fingertips, foaming around your forearms and shimmying across your sensitive and sensual shoulders, caressing your collar bones and tenderly traveling the nape of your neck to shimmer on the surface of your breasts.
Oh, to relax, pampered in a champagne pool, with scented oils burning, the glimmering light dancing off mirrored mosaic tiles, and flickering to the soothing crackle of countless scented candles.
You open your eyes and gently give way to another satisfied “hmmm” and “ahhh” conceding to the soft warmth of the bed, and the weight of the deep fox fur.