Something else a bit different. Not quite poetry, not quite a straight story, more emotion than my erotica.


We’re lying together on the bed; fully clothed and on top of the covers. Your arm is over me, wrapped across my stomach holding me close, your leg is bent over my legs, cocooning me; I’ve been crying for 30 minutes, we have been lying here for 20, every so often I feel your other hand stroke my hair as you kiss my head. You don’t say anything, you just hold me. Knowing you came over when I said don’t, knowing you stayed when I fell apart, knowing you just knew, it all helps.

It had been a year since my Dad died. I went to the crematorium to lay a rose for him, I didn’t want you to come with me, wasn’t sure how I’d be, and you’d already told me you don’t do crying women well. I had done OK, there were a few tears, nothing major though. But when I got home and found you waiting it was like someone flicked a switch in my head, you hugged me and the tears just started flowing. And credit where it’s due, you didn’t run or panic you just stood there holding me, and when I didn’t stop you walked me to the bed, sat me down, took off my shoes then your’s and laid me down curling behind me pulling me against you.

When the tears finally stopped, you didn’t move or speak, you just continued holding me. I wondered if you’d fallen asleep until you stroked my hair again. As I calm down I find myself stroking your arm over and over, moving my fingers in little circles, drawing swirls and patterns. And as I keep stroking I notice you stiffening, pressing against my arse, and I realise I need this, I want to feel alive. I roll onto my back and lean to kiss you, running my hand down your arm, onto your hip and reaching back to grab your arse, pulling myself against you as bite your lip. Your hand is up my skirt, moving my knickers to one side as you slide tow fingers in me easily. You slide them in and out, circling my clit with your thumb, while my hands fumble at your fly.  Releasing you, I work my hand up and down matching your rhythm, but I want more, I need more. I look into your eyes and ask “Please?” and you kiss me as you move on top of me, I reach a hand down guiding you in, folding my legs around your arse, lifting my hips to meet you, pulling you in deeper. I let the rhythm you set move me to the edge and back again, tightening myself around you letting it build until the feeling of you coming deep inside pushes me over the edge. You roll to the side and I cling-on, holding you inside me. Feeling the comfort you bring.


Hope you enjoyed……or maybe appreciated is a better word.  Thanks for reading. 🙂 x

2 thoughts on “Comfort

  1. This may sound weird, but I like wrapping a crying girl in my arms.

    Not because I like girls crying. I don’t like anyone crying – even babies – I find it incredibly upsetting. But I like the fact that, if a girl trusts me enough to let me comfort her through something as intimate as a cuddle, then I’m very willing to lend them warmth, security, and the knowledge that there’s someone who cares.

    And a cuddle is the best way to do that.

    I also do the stroking hair thing too…

    • Doesn’t sound weird at all. Just sounds like you are a very caring person. 🙂

      This is one of the best memories I have from that particular relationship. 🙂

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