Fantasy Masturbation Erotica
"Daffodil Dreaming" an erotic story by Penelope Friday
I feel her fingers sliding over my skin as I lie in bed, half-asleep. I sigh, keeping my eyes shut so that I will not know that she isn’t there; can pretend that this is more than a dream. In my fantasy, Maya’s breath is warm on my ear. She kisses my neck, inserting little bites now and then, and her hands move over my breasts and stroke my belly, gently. The room smells of spring: I have gathered the last of the daffodils from the garden and put them, over-flowing, into any and every receptacle I can find before spreading them around my bedroom. With the window an inch open, there is the early evening sound of a light breeze rustling through newly green leaves; I imagine the birches swaying to the music of the wind.
“Maya,” I murmur. I can almost hear her laugh, imagine her cuddling closer as she did so often. “I love you,” I would say, and she would tell me not to be so daft. “Why put words to what we have, Lily? It is what it is.”
Now, it is what it was—before she left me. Would I be grieving less if I had not put a name to my love?
“Shh!”
She isn’t there to whisper it in my ear, but I can pretend. At some times—especially when the scent of the daffodils becomes particularly strong—I even convince myself. And so, her left hand drifts further down, the large silver ring on her middle finger catching against me; a rough patch compared to her otherwise silk-like touch. She nuzzles against my shoulder, throws her leg over mine possessively, trapping me (a willing victim) underneath her. She sits up, and slips astride me, her hands reaching down so that each holds one of my breasts. She presses her thighs inward against mine, wriggling against me. It is so familiar, this motion, so essentially Maya, that I open my eyes to look up and smile at her—only to close them against tears because she is not there.
It takes some time to recreate the daydream well enough to enjoy Maya again, but I persevere. If this is the only way I can have her, I will make it perfect. I brush my lips against her forehead, then her cheeks; bring my mouth close to hers as if to kiss her, before drawing away.
“You tease, Lily!”
I have heard her say those words so often, a smile flitting across her face as she speaks. She never lets—let—me take control for long, however, she scratches her nails down my back, marking me as her own before pushing me down onto the pillow. She makes a faerie path of kisses down my spine, before her hands cup my bottom and massage it slowly, sensually. Then she turns me over and her mouth is on mine, punishing me for withholding the earlier kiss with the force of her own. Her breasts rub into mine, our legs tangle together as we meld into one person, one loved and loving soul. We reach the heights of ecstasy before sleeping, sated, wrapped in each other’s arms.
*
In the morning, when I wake, I lay the flowers from my room upon her grave.
Originally published August 2009