Drabble: Drunk
If music be the food of love, play on - Shakespeare
It’s been an evening filled with fine music and free flowing alcohol, the university puts on a week-long festival each year to celebrate the end of summer and the start of autumn. They’ve spent the evening with close friends at opening gala party, enjoying the performances put on by local bands and groups before being ushered out the door and reminded that they still have lectures in the morning by amused tutors.
You can taste the storm in the air, crisp and sharp despite the heavy hang of heat and humidity which has been unbearable lately but still the clouds haven’t broken, yet. The night is still young but rather than join their friends in the local clubs they weave their way through the streets and stumble up the steps to their apartment, fumbling with the keys until they are forced to break the kiss with soft laughter.
Somehow they make it through the front door into the apartment, the door is barely even closed before Ric is pressing Ophelia against the wood panel and resuming their lazy explorations.
He’s got his lips pressed against the curve of her neck, sucking at the milky white skin making it purple with the bruise he’s teasing into life. Hands wander, roam across her body and pluck at the buttons of her top before easing it slowly to the floor with a rustle of fabric. There’s no rush, no sense of urgency to the attention he pays, worshipping her body like a true disciple and teasing out those hushed whispers, soft sighs and eager moans. Ophelia may well be the musician but here, in the bedroom Ric is the maestro and he conducts the symphony usually with an air of focoso, a tone of teneramente, a sense of accarezzévole but always appassionato.
Ric is drunk. On life, on a mixture of alcohol, the slow build up of watching Ophelia swaying to the music and the soft swell of her breast as his fingers caress her through the material of her bra. He could feel the joy, warmth and pleasure wave over him as they slowly danced together amongst the press of bodies and lost themselves in the moment. He was looking forward to getting her home, of stripping her out of the corset top she wore and the many layers of the dress before pressing his tanned skin against her snow white, pale skin and watching her writhe.
She’s softly whispering, murmured words that are almost undistinguishable from her gasp of pleasure, especially when Ric licks at the place just behind her ear. He thinks he can hear her muttering things like I'll get my fill and I only want you more when you misbehave but he’s so used to her quoting her songs or writing new ones in the throes of passion that it doesn’t distract Ric from his task at hand.
Tugging Ophelia away from the door they stumble across the living, bouncing off the back of the sofa and nearly tumbling onto it before righting themselves. More clothes get lost on route to the bedroom, tossed to land haphazardly somewhere in the room as their focus remains on one another. The alcohol beating through their veins makes everything a little hazy, a little more mellow and sedate but no less bright and beautiful.
It’s been an evening filled with fine music and free flowing alcohol, the university puts on a week-long festival each year to celebrate the end of summer and the start of autumn. They’ve spent the evening with close friends at opening gala party, enjoying the performances put on by local bands and groups before being ushered out the door and reminded that they still have lectures in the morning by amused tutors.
You can taste the storm in the air, crisp and sharp despite the heavy hang of heat and humidity which has been unbearable lately but still the clouds haven’t broken, yet. The night is still young but rather than join their friends in the local clubs they weave their way through the streets and stumble up the steps to their apartment, fumbling with the keys until they are forced to break the kiss with soft laughter.
Somehow they make it through the front door into the apartment, the door is barely even closed before Ric is pressing Ophelia against the wood panel and resuming their lazy explorations.
He’s got his lips pressed against the curve of her neck, sucking at the milky white skin making it purple with the bruise he’s teasing into life. Hands wander, roam across her body and pluck at the buttons of her top before easing it slowly to the floor with a rustle of fabric. There’s no rush, no sense of urgency to the attention he pays, worshipping her body like a true disciple and teasing out those hushed whispers, soft sighs and eager moans. Ophelia may well be the musician but here, in the bedroom Ric is the maestro and he conducts the symphony usually with an air of focoso, a tone of teneramente, a sense of accarezzévole but always appassionato.
Ric is drunk. On life, on a mixture of alcohol, the slow build up of watching Ophelia swaying to the music and the soft swell of her breast as his fingers caress her through the material of her bra. He could feel the joy, warmth and pleasure wave over him as they slowly danced together amongst the press of bodies and lost themselves in the moment. He was looking forward to getting her home, of stripping her out of the corset top she wore and the many layers of the dress before pressing his tanned skin against her snow white, pale skin and watching her writhe.
She’s softly whispering, murmured words that are almost undistinguishable from her gasp of pleasure, especially when Ric licks at the place just behind her ear. He thinks he can hear her muttering things like I'll get my fill and I only want you more when you misbehave but he’s so used to her quoting her songs or writing new ones in the throes of passion that it doesn’t distract Ric from his task at hand.
Tugging Ophelia away from the door they stumble across the living, bouncing off the back of the sofa and nearly tumbling onto it before righting themselves. More clothes get lost on route to the bedroom, tossed to land haphazardly somewhere in the room as their focus remains on one another. The alcohol beating through their veins makes everything a little hazy, a little more mellow and sedate but no less bright and beautiful.