Sexual Alchemy: Water
The one who filled her cup
It was about all the cups he never filled, metaphorically, but also quite literally.
She could count on one hand the times he had filled her water glass without being prompted, during their decade of meals together.
Defyingly, she’d place her glass in front of him; next to his own, that he’d just topped up. Her eyes, firmly fixated on his hand closing the bottle cap, he’d remain oblivious. She’d clear her throat, loudly. Still no reaction. Eventually, giving up, she’d pull the bottle from his hand.
—Whaaaaaat!? He’d look up, perplexed and defensive, his voice twitching with fury.
—I’m not a mind reader, just tell me what you want!
Her cup was a thousand times empty.
She longed for more than water. She pictured herself, and every pore of her skin, a sea anemone; pert and pining to be noticed. But like the perky polyp, the slightest touch would surely cause her to implode and startle shut in a mix of marvel and ecstasy.
Drenched and dripping with sweat he reaches for the flask on the nightstand.
—Water? he asks. She nods.
Placing the bottle to his lips, he fills his mouth. Without having to think, she opens hers.
As if resuscitating her, he leans over and tops her up, three times, before drinking himself — The same amount of times he’d made her orgasm before his own pants even made it past his hips.
Their lips meet again. Small rivers of water pour out the sides of her mouth, and down her neck, adding yet another wet spot to the mattress underneath them.
