Archive-name: Dreams/glasshous.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Glasshouse, The


The English summer evening can be graceful.  The sun, seeking shade beyond
the edge, posts a golden apology on leaf and pane.  At this time I would 
dream with glazed vulnerablility and romantic thought. A lonely yearning, 
heightened by glass barriers. 

An interior and solitary person, I sought the plump cottage `with space' to
range in my small, confined world in safety.  It neighboured a twin, separated
by a tall, derelict stone wall running the acre length of a matching 
riotous garden.  A small green door set in the wall, testifying
that neighbours had not always sought apartheid.  This door was fast-stuck 
by generations of ivied suckers.

I never sought to tame my jungle of frenzied creepers,  wild shubbery and 
overblown fruit trees.  The view from my scullery window was a daily summer 
surprise of changing colour and shape.  An accidental happenstance much like
my erratic life.

The twin remained empty for the first eight months of my rule.  Then
the woman came.  She slipped into the grey stone walls with ease and
quiet.  After the initial invasive flush I welcomed her remote companionship.
The terror of neighbourly descent waned and I continued in my hermitage. 
Nothing seemingly altered.  Her garden remained a matching riot.

Then came the summer evenings and the glasshouse.

It rose painfully amidst the shrubs during a day of workmanlike shouts.
It filled fast with fernage and exotic blasts.  At first a seeming huge
blot of curving glass, I watched the sun bless it warmly and approved.

The woman visited the glasshouse in the evenings.  I discovered this
accidentally whilst rummaging in my attic.  Through the tiny, grimy window I
could see her vista.  Her privacy was assured by the garden wall were I 
elsewhere in my cottage.  After the initial shock of that first
sighting I shamelessly took station in the attic in anticipation of her
further forays.  

She had a ritual.  She would stroll the distance from the rear door to
the glasshouse lifting her face to the farewell of day; testing
the breeze.  The apparently random journey would bring her to the
glasshouse.  She would pause before the door, shed her clothes unthinkingly
on the grass, then enter.

I saw her only from the rear.  Naked, wide-hipped, not tall.  A slight
turn, a shifting of heavy auburn hair, a sullen swell of breast.  I, 
cramped and cross-legged for an hour awaited her exit, then an ashamed 
voyeur, I eased downstairs to ponder in accustomed yearning.

After the second sighting I cleaned the window and sought a cushioned
comfort.  I tummied, elbow propped in dreamy viewing.  My nest
established, tea and biscuits...a week passed in rear nude appreciation.

On the seventh day I was rewarded.  I remained longer than the hour and 
she emerged.  She looked straight at my attic window. I froze, clearly 
outlined now the sunspray had given way to silver pane.  My cove was dark
but I was a silhouette in the light of the stairwell backlighting.

The woman was proudlined.  Her deep brown eyes warm and direct.  She
stood, a looselimbed statue with toffee-tipped curved breasts, swelling
stomach and dark-downy crotch.  She bent calmly, collected her clothes and 
glided from view.

The next evening the green wall door was forced ajar, trailing jumbled
ivy streamers and bruised earth.  

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In a dream I passed through the torn green portal and entered her glass
sanctuary.  The mute light filled with fine billowing mist.  Her
greenhouse was served with overhead sprayers.  One reason to be naked.

Benches of ferns, fronds clasping damply over aisles.  The strong musk
of chipped bark, wet peat and dewey mud.  And her, poised glittering
with fine droplets, nude beside the orchids...lips slightly parted,
feet slightly parted.

The woman unclothed me gently while I moved in silent-limbed compliance.  
Our pile of cloth sprawled small on the lawn.  She took my hand and 
smoothed my fingertips across the down of an orchid head.  It slid in 
smooth giving, a warm, moist velvet.  The stamen bumped its small erection
in my palm, the bruised petals a pungent protest.

Then, turning my palm up she placed it, with hers to cup my own
pudendum.  I felt my clitoris perk stamen-like in my palm and my
fingers sought my warm satin, my own moist folds. We slipped
our fingers in my wet well and my breath shortened.

She met her tongue to the orchid, eyes closed, she licked the down.  
She closed softly around the shedding stamen and rolled gently.  A fine 
yellow powder coated her lips when she rose and brought them to mine.  
I sucked her bottom lip, tasting, her tongue feinting.

Then we lay, the damp bark sponging beneath us.  She sighing as I
spread her, kneeled to her opening to suck her buttoning toffee-tips 
with rolling lips and soft nipping.  A heady dip and pungent swirls of
bark and her scents. She unveiled in finger parted labia and pink
whorls and crevices.  She tasted thick and spicy and shifted creamy 
over my face.  My tongue was caught and tucked in hollows and small
silk caverns.  Her voice...low, quick and foreign, encouraging with
small growls.   When she came, she trembled hard against my lips 
and spilled her precious pittance in my moving mouth.

We crushed together, peering down at bulged mamma.  She courted me with 
an eager mouth and sighs.  She tore the orchid from its dark stem and 
trailed it over pink aureole and inner thigh.  She worked the crumpling 
bloom in my sopping cleft and brought it, with her lips, to mine to taste 
and mix.  Bending my legs hard up she curved my hips, shouldering my knees.
Her tongue sought and forced past my pursed anus, a firm thrust...small 
muscling demand.  Her heavy auburn hair wove wetly on my tensing thighs as 
I shamelessly rode her, her nose riding slittily.  Her hands grabbed and 
mashed my breasts, stomach and swollen mound.  When I shuddered she groaned 
in ecstasy.

Afterwards we traced each other with fern fronds.  We peered and
compared and laughed, small, deep intimate sounds in the mist.  We
touched and rubbed, tasted and experimented.  Our womenhood meshed and
fit, bonded and acknowledged.  A glass committed etching of flesh
shapes.

I learned her name was Eve.

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