Reaching Her - Sex Stories

Reaching Her

Tomasz is cold. He shouldn’t be. It’s mid-morning, summer, and the city is in the middle of what the voice on the radio had described as a heat wave. On top of that, the air conditioner mounted on the bedroom window had conked out two weeks earlier. Yet. a creeping chill trickles like icy fingers up and down his back. Despite how cold he feels, he wishes that he had been able to fix the air-conditioner. He sits in the corner of the bedroom, hidden in the dull shadows beyond the reach of yellow sunlight breaching the window. He’s aware that he doesn’t actually need to “hide”. He prefers to shroud himself in shadow, however, as he silently looks toward the bed. Lying on the bed is Rachel, splayed across the mattress, pillows and blanket hanging off the edge. She wriggles and twists in fits, hot and uncomfortable, even only in her bra and panties. Her eyes are pinched tight, evidence of a mind too busy, too strained for a peaceful rest. Perspiration pastes strands of her rusty auburn hair onto her glossy face. Her alabaster skin is covered in a sheen of moist heat. Every few minutes, a soft gasp sighs from her lips after she swallows. It’s chased by a mournful, hushed murmur that makes Tomasz’ heart ache so much that he has to look away from her toward an empty corner of the ceiling. A modest black dress is crumpled at foot of the bed, matching black shoes already kicked aside by the door to the bedroom. An open-bottle of Cabernet sits on the bedside table, tepid and souring, a ...

... garden of scrunched tissues scattered around it. The windows remain shut; she didn’t bother to open them, preferring to keep the world out as long as she could. It’s stifling in the room. Tomasz really wishes he had fixed that damn air-conditioner. He rises up from the chair and looks towards the door; it’s a door he’s been unable to pass through. Despite how much it hurts to see Rachel this way, he is unable to leave her at peace. Though his feet are unnaturally heavy, like anchors dragging down each heel, he walks as softly and lightly across the room as he can. He doesn’t want to cause Rachel anymore unrest. He drags along his shadow from the corner with him. He comes to the dresser; there’s a powdering of dust along top of the almond wood grain. He allows himself a smirk. Dusting had always been the bane of their cleaning chores. Amongst the combs and brushes, the spare change, and half-empty bottles of perfume and cologne, sits a couple of frames. Mismatched, one is a simple, blue-stained, wood rectangle, while the other is much more ornate, the intricate silver and glass details capturing and reflecting the light in the room. The photos match their frames. The one in the blue frame is slightly out of focus, underexposed, and poorly composed. The photo in the silver frame is beautiful and perfect, painstakingly retouched and enhanced to draw out whatever the photographer’s eye saw in it. It doesn’t matter. The couple in the photos look exactly the same to Tomasz. He sees ...