Then it was all over.
She came to me again that night, creeping into the bed beside me and pulling the covers up over us. Her naked skin was cold where she warmed herself against me.
‘Tell me a story,’ she said.
‘I have no stories left to tell.’ The box where I kept the stories was empty. She had taken the last one the night before. Now, I had nothing left to tell her, nothing left to say.
Her hand moved down, over my body. ‘I need a story,’ she said. ‘I need to know why my hand is moving down over your body, and why I am doing this,’ she began to kiss down along the path her hand had taken, until her kissing mouth met her hand.
Another kiss, right there. I felt myself respond, my body seeking her mouth, feeling her warm breath caressing me as she spoke. ‘I need a tale to tell me what to do next.’
I looked down to see the moonlight reflected in her eyes. Her hand squeezed. I moaned and thought of all the stories I knew, of all the tales I had told to women like her.
I sighed ‘Once there was a woman who, every night came to the bed of the Storyteller to be told a story to help her sleep,’ I sighed again as her warm mouth closed over me and I felt the first flick of her wet tongue. ‘One night though the story-teller had no more stories left to tell her. “I need a story,” the woman said. “I need to know why my hand is moving down over your body, and why I am doing this.” she began to kiss down along the path her hand had taken, until her kissing mouth met her hand.’
She sighed too now, as the story began and her head and hand began to move in time with each other and with the rhythm of my words.
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