Rib by Roberta Lawson

She smells like cinnamon. He tastes like sea-salt. Her hair is the colour of the apples on the trees. His is dark and curled, soft like animal down. When she strokes him, he purrs. In the mornings, evenings, they swim, emerge fresh and naked from untainted ocean. They tell one another they are the gods, goddesses, their laughter lazily rippling. They tell one another this is the beginning and do not laugh. Wrapped in one another, the world buzzes quietly around them. When they kiss they grow larger and he breathes: yes, we are the gods. Between her legs she is ripe red like pomegranate seeds. He reaches. She climbs atop him, asks: but wasn’t I second, smaller? Her fingers brush his rib-cage. He smells of lust and grass in the sunshine. He swells, tugging her over him. You are a goddess, he whispers. No such thing as smaller, second. The hot breath of the afternoon. Apples spill. She arches.

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3 Comments

Filed under Roberta Lawson

3 responses to “Rib by Roberta Lawson

  1. Great, sexy story. Love the image of the apple at the end.

  2. Loved it at fn and love it here. I am such a sucker for anything having to do with pomengranates and all that fruit stands for. Peace…

  3. Pingback: #10 – Union of Opposites « 52|250 A Year of Flash

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