Torture of the best kind

His lips were soft. Too soft. Like kissing a cloud of vaporised candy floss. There was no harshness there either, only dainty chick pecks. They were very pink, as pink as pomegranate seeds, which are rather red now that I think about it, as just as sweet. 

It was too fast, the experience that is. He was slow. Drawing out the nips and tongue flicks, he paced it like a long distance race. Sometimes repetitive and easy and occasionally the rare trip up where the crowd gets rattled again. It was also like a sprint. The excitement and thrill was over all too quickly. 

Breathing didn't matter, in fact we forgot how to. We were in a world where we didn't have to inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. Somehow we still managed to hitch our breaths, the gasps coming after the shivers still expired from our trachea. I am still not sure my avioli have recovered completely. 

I don't know why we stopped but he left a ghost. It haunts me every time someone new comes along. It traces a replay of our time on my skin so I am always reminded. It's torturous to live through it day after day, like the cogs constantly turning, pulling your limbs further away from your torso. 

 

I can't stop it. I don't want to.