How Long?

Ramaio

Until her supple spine mirrored the elegant arch of a windswept palm tree seconds before snapping.

Until every strand of her tangled mane sprang free from the grip of his hand, tickling her shoulders, her back, sweeping across her flushed face and generously falling onto his.

Until her throat—once the vessel of fully formed words—now offered only empty moans, only aching pleas, lightly scraping the ceiling before leaking into the hallway and sharing with the befuddled passersby a torture they once knew and now only remembered in lonely spurts.

Until the already blurred line between pleasure and pain erased itself with the dance her hips did without permission and yet somehow in time with the rhythmic shudder of her shoulders and the jut of her jaw, locked onto his collarbone, tightly (too tightly?) with the maddening slap of their thighs providing a percussive soundtrack to this encounter of violently crashing souls.

Until her eyebrows reached for the crown of her sweat-laden head.

Until she recalled the rush of serenity along the walls of the neighbor's whirlpool, a few feet from Daddy's eyes (like he would notice anyway) and minutes before danceline rehearsal, but somehow miles and miles from it all, miles from the questions about how school was going, miles from her brother and the nerf ball he balanced on his nose like a seal, miles from Mom and her perfect posture, miles from any sound, any troubling thought, any stupidity anywhere.

Until the unhealthily thin janitor cleared his throat—a subtle warning before unlocking the door and lowering his eyes as if he didn't see the mad scramble for scattered clothes.

Until it was time to rejoin the others in the conference room.

Ramaio is the co-writer of St. Satana, the Queen of smart smut whose blog can be read, enjoyed and thoroughly disapproved of at http://saintsatana.blogspot.com