The cool spring air smudged with warmth reminds me of your sprawling garden, raised beds knit with shoots and hustles of herbs in a new rush to grow. Yes, I can see it now, the shocking green and soft purples, the simple complications, the unashamed hope of it all.
You know how Iâ€™d pick handfuls of parsley and shove them into the crook of my arm. Iâ€™d slip inside and rinse my finds with cool water in your kitchen, then Iâ€™d separate the delicate leaves from their bold stems. Iâ€™d fill the stone mortar waiting expectantly on your counter and Iâ€™d lift the heavy pestle with a small smile. Iâ€™d begin to grind as you came, filling the doorway and returning my smile. Iâ€™d crush the leaves with a sprinkle of salt and a dash of garlic releasing the overpowering scent that accompanies the death of new life.
With you watching, a thought would come to me. Without really knowing why, Iâ€™d abandon my destruction. Pestle in hand, I’d come to you thoughtfully. Iâ€™d pull you to the ground with one hand and with one hand Iâ€™d rip your panties from you, smiling all the time. Iâ€™d look from you to the glistening green of the pestle and back again. When I pulled your legs apart, youâ€™d know why; youâ€™d meet my gaze with a flash of recognition.
Yes, youâ€™d gasp when I brought the cold hard pestle down between your legs, gently at first but grinding. Yet your hips would lift slightly when I turned the pestle against your clit â€“ once, twice, more. There would be surprise there too, but no more than at the shock of seeing the new garden outside. Youâ€™d like the abuse. Youâ€™d want more, plead with your eyes, beg me to destroy you. Harder and harder and harder Iâ€™d turn the stone against my new mortar until you completely dissolved, grinning at me as you came.
Afterwards youâ€™d go to dress as Iâ€™d finish grinding my herbs, mixing in your flavors. Weâ€™d eat by the window, smearing the herbs onto new bread, eyeing the garden and laughing.