A Heart Melting

I saw Her from the window of the train, standing on the platform as she waited for the doors to open.
She could’ve walked right by but She plops herself down on the seat facing mine and now She’s going to be all I can think about.

In this summer sunshine, I’ve never known a place so warm.

Sat still, trapped in this humming heat. Gaze through the window at the chequered fields as they roll by.
The window which intensifies the slow, heavy warmth, and I’m like an ant under the magnifying glass.

Or like a wasp drowsy and drunk on mushy-ripe apple as the steady movement of the train rocks me into a dream-like state.

Glancing. Glances. Glancing. I keep my face toward the window, but my eyes, like a tempted child, always creep slowly back to where She’s sat.
Dressed for the weather in a low-cut top that flashes a lissom midriff, and a short, white skirt from which achingly glossy legs extend.

All too inevitably her eyes flick up to catch mine peeping, before they guiltily shift about in their sockets.

I know She knows. She knows I know She knows. She knows I see Her see me see Her.

What to do? Can’t help doing what not to do.
Not when I’ve seen Her tongue tip glide wetly across her bottom lip. Or notice stray hairs sticking to Her perspiring temple. Or how the light makes Her honey-glazed skin shimmer with a sultry radiance. To not look? To not want another glance? Can’t do it.
Just can’t do it.

And her cleavage… look, don’t get me started on her cleavage.
She unfolds a newspaper. A supplement falls to the floor between our feet. And when she leans forward to rescue it… I have to close my eyes ‘till the dizziness wanes and the world slots back into place.

Sticky. Sticky skin sticking to sticky skin. A bead of sweat runs down my spine like it’s the Cresta Run, and I can hear the drumbeat of my heart in my ears. My squishy, sloppy heart. Gooey heart. Insides like a Dali painting: my melting heart draped over a rib.
Can She hear my heart beating?
Being beaten.

Oh this heat! But not even that can stop a rousing in my groin when She crosses Her legs, thigh against thigh and her short white skirt… and, elsewhere, in it’s lair, a slimy, slithy worm does stir…
As to what else lurks there, the phrase boil-in-the-bag has a new home.
Did I mention the heat?

An expanse of thigh, warm skin and parted lips.
The train slows and outside I see, in a sun-baked muddy paddock, tied to a lightning tree, a weather-worn donkey stands and moans.
It’s almost like seeing my reflection.

Onward chunters our oven-train as, outside, the English countryside is soaked in a violent light, blasted by a hammering sun.
And, though I try an ignore it for a while, a nerve behind my eye pulls it again
to Her side.


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in other news.
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sex, erotica, cleavage, exchanging glances, sultry, short skirt, thighs