Wednesday
January 2, 2019
I am careful when opening the front door tonight, the lights were off in the apartment which meant that Laurel must’ve already climbed into bed. It is not rare for her to be asleep when I come home, in fact it is something I’ve come to treasure about her. Since I met her halfway through her nursing degree she has been firing on all cylinders, thinking and working as if her very life depended on it. It is inspiring, really, the velocity and precision with which she broods. I always try to make sure she knows how much I admire her quickness and intellect, whether it be through flowers, poems, or nights like these. I had come home hoping to sweep her up in my arms, lay her on her back, and give her kisses warm enough to make her heart race as fast as her mind does. Not tonight, though, she must be exhausted. She should sleep.
I light the kitchen candles and set a pot of water on the stove. Dancing shadows from the flames keep me company as I untie my boots and scarf. Winters in Vermont are not the worst in the world, but they demand a great amount from the folks who live here. My frozen pale fingers tremble by the flame of the candle, and my poor knuckles are so chilled that I could sink them into the candle’s hot wax and probably not feel a thing. It gets awfully cold in this apartment after the sun sets in the late afternoon, we cope by filling every room with as many candles as we can fit. We shiver on the couch and our teeth chatter in the kitchen, but we try to warm ourselves by watching our candles burn. It makes the cold tolerable, plus we both enjoy the rustic feeling of cooking and cuddling by candlelight. Its romantic, and it gives me a chance to recount and deeply feel all the emotions I talk about in the privacy of my journal. She thinks it’s silly how often I say “I love you” when we’re using our candles. She teases me but not in a rude way. She enjoys that I express my emotions, and I enjoy that she encourages me to. She giggles when I tell her I love her, but every time she responds by telling me she loves me too.
I fill my infuser with tea and let it steep in the steaming water. I often grow impatient with my tea. It takes too long to steep and even longer to cool down, and by the time I am able to drink without scalding my lips I am too antsy to enjoy it properly. Laurel always finds it funny. She would say it’s rude to rush the tea, just as how it is rude to rush someone during their bath. She would encourage me to appreciate the time it takes to prepare tea by getting to know its smells and warmth. Her nose would hover in the steam of her mug, taking in all the scents of grass and spice. After every few breaths she would translate the smells of my tea into excited, satisfied shouts, almost as if she forgets I am in the same room as her. “Cardamom!” she would yell, hunched over the kitchen counter, “Black pepper too, is this a chai?”
I clutch the warm mug as I climb the creaky stairs to our room. She must definitely be asleep, or else she would’ve heard me now and came running out of the room to say hello. I don’t mind though, sometimes the silence and and safety of being home is welcoming enough on its own. I slowly push open our bedroom door, moving inch by inch to avoid the dreaded creak at the end of its rotation. I return it back to close even slower and with even more care. The silhouette of her body is visible even in the darkness of our room. The blanket fits to her form, creating the illusion of an slender hourglass laying sideways in my bed. He hips rise high above her waist while her arms prop her head up from under her ear. She faces away from me but I can still hear soft rhythm of her breath above the hum of her diffuser. What a welcome series of sounds it is: Comforting and curious, sensual and soothing. I sink my legs under the sheets and feel her shuffle slightly. Her warm feet slide over and rest on mine as if to greet me. I write this journal entry as she sleepily cuddles into the crook of my neck. I have plenty of memories and stories of Laurel and I, stories of shameless nudity, erotic meditation, and hypnotizing moans of pleasure, and I hope to share them all soon. For now, however, there is no sexual release hypnosis or whimpered orgasmic mantra. For now we sleep comfortably in each other’s company, hearts open.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/acb199/a_page_from_my_journal_laurel_f