Thom Crowe was a man on the edge. Before him spread a vacant expanse of nothing and behind, a golden field of his follies. He stared into the limitless certainty beyond with a degree of detachment, like a road-wearied traveler's eyes set blankly on the vast horizon beyond his road. For Thom, there was no road. Only here. And then. A silent wind whipped at him from the empty chasm, unfurling mute and hollow promises. An end that would never come. A finality which could never be for Thomas Crowe.
By contrast, the fields behind were lively and lush. Golden grass swayed and danced in a gentle breeze, interrupted only by the criss-crossing paths he had trampled in his adventures and frolics. Hills rolled out the flattened trails marking his capers and dandelion puffs swirled hyper eddies agitated still by the sudden maelstrom that followed Crowe. It was a fey wind that spun behind Thomas, which drifted and turned, and woke things only imagined in fairytales and dreams.
Roused by the violence of his passing, the sylph drifted languidly upon the breeze, pranced and bound over the trails flattened beneath his feet and twisted curiously in the whirlwind of cloud-puffed seeds. Long legs formed of alabaster and grace tightened and sprang, gay and free behind Thom Crowe's back, and balanced lithely on slim hips, marred with neither hair nor blemish. A delicately perfect dimple marked the center of smooth stomach rising from the fey maiden's tender petals up unto the gentle swell of tiny breasts. Teased and tautened at the brush of cerulean hair, iceberg blue nipples rose firmly from areolae the span of a dime. Topping a body formed of perfection-in-fantasy personified, the sylph's face was dainty, lifted with mischievous cheekbones over full lips the same shade as her nipples, split by a thin nose and beset with sparkling eyes of brilliant sapphire.
The sylph crooked a willowy finger and a tilted grin, beckoning Thom Crowe from the precipice. As he turned, so did she, shifting weight with a playful glance across her shoulder and a swoosh of blue hair draped over tightly bunched buns. Without hesitation, Thom gave chase. Answered with a silvery giggle, the sylph darted aside. She took turns running across the field, laughing at his every misstep and stumble as his eyes locked on her snow white rump tensing and flexing, and the peek-a-boo hint of royal blue petals hidden between; and dancing circles about him, small perky orbs bouncing their swollen blue treats like cherries on a Jell-o sundae.
At length, Thomas caught the vexatious sylph, tumbling across the field with a carefree duet of guffaws and giggles. She rolled atop, pressing lips like rain-slicked cotton candy against his. Hands of whispering clouds roamed and pulled at Thom's clothes as they traded wet sighs. Though he tested and probed and tried, the sylph made him wait until he was stripped of all but a dusty t-shirt before parting lips to taste his tongue and parting legs to mash glistening wet petals against his thick hip.
Thomas didn't let her self-gratification last long. He pushed himself upright, lifting her in his arms, their lips still locked and tongues warring for dominance against the other or merely boasting flexibility and stamina. Slender fingers found the bottom of his shirt and lifted, separating their lips with the thin fabric. She paused, trapping his face in the cotton and curled legs around his waist, locking at her ankles.
She could feel Thomas' arousal. His stiffness throbbed with burning need, impressing its urgency upon her cloud white bellybutton. The sylph laughed and lowered a hand between them. She teased fingers as light as a mist-borne sigh along his length while he struggled to free himself from his own shirt. Petals dripping honey and dew parted at the base of his manhood and she grinded into Thom's slow groan. She drifted back in his lap to press him again, and a third time and a fourth, then squeaked in dismayed surprise as he lifted her from her game and onto his. Thomas Crowe impaled the sylph on his lap, thrust his meatblade hilt-deep into the damp, tight crevasses of her garden, and then thrust again.
Caught between disappointment at his rushed urgency and the urgency of his rushed excitement, the sylph pouted. And then exhaled. Then gasped. Sapphire eyes glazed slowly against the cloudless sky as they ascended, her suddenly stunted arousal rising again, following into the sky behind them with each grunting thrust Thomas Crowe squawked. On a warm monsoon breeze, they soared like angels, limbs entwined and thrusting and grinding like a machine of flesh and sweat.
But there was more to the sylph than soft clouds between her legs. She arched her back, baring small, perky breasts to the sun, and pulled Thom's lips to her. For the moment it lasted, the sylph chased heaven through her body, inhaled from the frosty air a quarter mile above Thom's golden fields and expanding to fill her every limb with a tingling minty chill. His tongue set fire to ice blue nipples, his teeth pinched and tugged a yelp from her nerves and a moan from her heart, and his pulsing tool slammed her sex gently as a hammer. Calloused hands cupped muscled ass, pulled and squeezed and clenched and spread. And when she was rolling her head back, readying to spill her screams to the horizon, hot seed spilled from Thomas Crowe's rigid manhood.
Load after load of burning release filled the sylph as the pleasured gauze misting her vision retreated. She stared at him, sapphire eyes darkening with each self-satisfied grunt pumping frustration into her loins. And when Thom's once boastful muscle slipped from her burning blue lips, leaking the pearls of his own gratification, the storm broke angrily upon her face.
"I wasn't finished," the sylph hissed petulantly. She disentangled her legs from the blissfully ignorant Thomas Crowe and pushed. Black clouds gathered at the brush of gossamer wings, roiled in sympathy of her irritation, and chased the inadequate lover with the sweat and juices of his own exertions for the half mile that he fell from heaven.
Thom Crowe was a man on the edge of life and death. Before him spread a vacant expanse of nothing. And behind, hurtling fast to meet him, a golden field that would soon bear his follies.