Sûrah LII
THE MOUNT
"Reclining on ranged couches. And We wed them unto fair ones with wide, lovely eyes."

52
MONS VENERIS


Heavenly is the slumber Amy's counterpart prolongs...
 

a vintage radiator aspirating heat into the room, creating tropical conditions prime for cultivating orchids;
 

hothouse-humid, Phoebe's boudoir saps the strength of her companion, who lies limply on the bed sheets like a steam-exhausted curl, relaxed and oh, so-very-grateful for this unexpected warmth that seems to lick the skin deliciously, soft and fond as a puppy's tongue.


Both pillows, damp beneath their mistresses' slightly flushed, perspiring cheeks, exude an aftermath-quintessence from their liquor-leaching love, expressions blissful and erotic, borderline inebriated.


Amy stirs.


Theirs is a closeness mythological in its passionate sorority, an exclusive sense of sweet completeness known to few save twins, a Sapphic duo set adrift by night, by daybreak spilled ashore, with none but sympathetic sighs to sooth their temperaments.


Phoebe, sprawling in the midst of her refulgent semi-consciousness, conjures—crease by mound by pucker—toothsome kisses they indulged, a playful nibble, luscious mouthing, hungry lapping, thirsty slurp whereby they sought to drink each other to the dregs; indeed beyond, exchanging fluids with an ebb and flow as lunar, in its sharing, as the subtle synchronicity of their periods.


Amy, splayed, two fingers toying with her pubic area, two more with her lover's (neither hand entirely sure whose flesh is whose) sustains their pleasure, not with pre-orgasmic urgency or with post-orgasmic languor, simply stroking in an idle fashion, redirecting nectar from the groove where it has pooled to its nacreous surroundings.


Thought turned into instinct, fragile feelings now hold sway, with quilted patterns, blotchy camouflage, tie-died imagery dappling senses so sedate they appear to ripen like the fateful fruit in Eden...

... pilfered, spoiled; the doorbell sounds an ill-timed SHRILL alarm!