Her dangling
earrings.
He is
mesmerized, like a moth to flame when he sees the perfect beautiful earlobes of
hers dangling with new colors every day. He thinks that one day would come,
when he wouldn't be absolutely amorous, watching the jewelry on her in
unbelievable ways. But he finds himself being wrong with each passing day. He
cannot get enough of kissing the pendulous part, soft like silk, each night,
each day, and each moment that he can, and savors the moans he elicits in
response.
Her nose
ring.
That tiny
loop of silver, twirled around on her nose, does absolute wonders to his
concentration. He watches it twinkle in different lights. He watches it when
she gets irritated by something immaterial and her nose flares up in anger. He
just stares at it for hours, without any rhyme or reason, just because it is so
unbelievably fascinating. Every night when he is taking her, joining with her
in the union of their souls, he watches the silver gleam off on her perspiring
aroused face.
Her red
thread of mangalsutra.
The
thread, he doesn't dare changing it. The way it just locks her swan like neck,
he wonders at times why she wears it in the first place. The only conclusion he
comes up with is to hypnotize him. It deludes him, into thinking that he
deserves her. It enforces the belief into him, that he is good enough for her.
It tugs on to him, he caresses it every night, as he kisses her neck, hungrily
with a never ending thirst.
Her
always shining, always teasing bangles.
He
breaks at least a few of them every night. He apologizes too. But it gnaws at him
so much, that he ends up bringing new different colored ones every next day.
Which he ends up breaking in a few days too. He cannot help it, this raw
gnawing passion that no matter how hard he tries, does not withhold itself into
his body. It just has to come out on her and consume her as well into this fire
which burns them, scalds them, night after night after night.
Her
chiming anklets.
He
enters the house, and the first sound he wants to listen is the tinkling of her
anklets. They tell her where she is, they tell her how fast she rushes to meet
him, like a stream flowing to meet the ocean. It is immensely arousing, to know
that the distance that rankles him throughout the day, affects her too. He
waits for her to thrash into him, the anklets announcing her arrival, and
welcomes the dainty frame of hers into his own.
Her dark
as blood sindoor.
She used
to apply it by herself every morning. But now, he applies it to her. It just is
something he has come to enjoy, to revel in, that the dark red symbolizes that
she belongs to him. That he is the one, whom she has given herself to. That he
is the one, the protector, the lover, the everything, the one.
Her thin
waist chain.
He
remembers the first time he touched that chain. He had felt goosebumps all over
him. Him, a guy, more than sufficiently experienced with women, had shivered at
the touch of the metal that held her soft, slender waist. He is jealous of it,
at times, that it clings to that delectable area of his wife. He imagines his
arms, clinging there, eliciting goosebumps, all the time. He kisses that waist
chain every night, before ceremoniously taking it off and proceeding kissing
and nipping and biting that delicious navel of hers.
Her deep
colored odhanis.
He makes
sure that she is securely wrapped up again in the deeply hued odhani that she
had been wearing during the day. She is always spent, too tired, too deep in
slumber to care for what she is wearing, or not wearing afterwards. He just
finds that amusing, how he is the one
who ends up caring afterwards. How he is
the one who first covers her up, then himself, and then secures the blankets
around her.
Her
innumerable mirrors.
She has
had mirrors on her since the first day. Be it in her hand, in her clothes, in
her hair as adornments, or in her footwear. She just has an unbridled affinity
towards mirrors. What he understands is that, she has this habit because she is
one herself. She is pure, pious, and completely transparent. So much so, that
she reflects everything around her. That is the reason, every night, he gives
her his all. He gives her all the love, all the fire, all the tenderness, and
all his soul. So that, she reflects it just as much.
Her kohl-laden
eyes.
He
accepts this. He accepts wholeheartedly that her eyes are the deepest darkest
brown that he has ever seen. They hold him in, and he drowns. They tell him
what she wants, what she doesn't. They tell him the intensity with which she
loves. They tell him everything he wants to know about her, and know about him
as well. He knows for a fact that, they are the truest window to her soul. And
that in turn, makes him see glimpses of his own soul as well, for he knows,
they aren't different beings anymore.
Her rose-colored
lips.
He
kisses them tenderly. He kisses them coarsely. He kisses them till he hears her
pant on his lips. He kisses them till he is panting himself. He bites them,
sucks them. He doesn't stop. He knows he never will. He'll continue merging his
lips into her, till he breathes. For he wants evidence. He wants material
evidence which only kissing her gives... That she indeed is for real. And that
she indeed belongs to him.
Her
never ending beauty-spots.
He has
counted them for days. He has fantasized about them, once upon a time. He had
even cursed them for being there. But now, as every night he worships them,
kisses them reverently, lightly nips them, leaving them a bit red-stained, he
knows he never really stood a chance against her. She had him wrapped around
her fingers from the day he had first discovered a til on her.
Her
dainty, too soft for her own good wrists.
He has
this habit. This bad habit. This really really
bad habit. Maybe this isn't voluntary. He doesn't really know what triggers
this into him, because he has done this since he met her. He just has believed in the notion that her wrists
belonged to him. Whether she struggled, whether she lay in throes of passion,
or whether she was just taking a casual stroll with him. He hands would wrap
around her wrists, and take control of her body, for he just really couldn't let
go of her.
Her
long, smooth as cream, always hidden legs.
He bites
the flesh on her. He licks the whole expanse of the creamy skin of her legs.
His fingers skim through her thighs, making her moan and gasp and shiver with
fervor. He leaves trails and trails of burgundy love bites on her, unknown to
the world, only his proud work of art. She blushes profusely at these actions
of his, but he doesn't give in. He just wants his wife, all of her.
Her
skin. Her iridescent as the moon skin.
His
fingers roam all over her, taking in the glow. The unbelievably milky,
alabaster skin eludes him. His mouth craves to taste it. His lips savor it. His
tongue lavishly glides over it. And yet, he can never get enough of it. Like a
crazed wandered finally finding home, Like a yearning thirsty traveler finally
finding oasis, he worships her like no other.
Edited by _SenbonZakura_ - 9 years ago
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