For A.
*
We are here, by the water's edge, a rhythmic blanketing of our feet with ripples that soak in the colors of the sky - violet, watermellon, juicy orange. The air is noisy with birds, insects, distant hums, but it is silent of voice and people. In this moment, it is only your breath I hear, and as my eyes drift from the water and the sky, it is only you I see.
Time feels lazy, the seconds pile one on top of the other slowly, with a deliberate collapse and merge, an elevator of puzzle pieces. I don't know how long we've been sitting here, but each second longer adds a drop into the charged air moving between, among, and through both of us.
Our fingers are touching, more and more entwined, a wild summer vine that tangles and grows just where needed, just where it is supposed to be.
I smile and lean my head against you, cheek to your shoulder, and it feels like the natural state of things, as though the breeze just toppled me into you with such grace and purpose that nothing would dare shift us away from this exact pose.
Except, that is, for passion.
We both feel the electricity beneath our skin and between our thighs escalate at the same time. We lean back without a word spoken, letting our hunger navigate, and the awakening twilight frame us as silhouettes who cannot handle one more moment without tasting and feeling and being and fucking.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
finding autumn
The leafs are beginning their lazy fall, a sassy float from branch to air to ground. As we walk along, the path before us is golden and splotched with red.
Blonde hair tangled between my fingers as I pull you from the bed, up to my thighs, forehead and cheeks rosy and deepening.
The breeze is gentle, a light touch to the skin, a whispered goodbye of summer and a coy hello of autumn, a comfort in the transition, a blanket in the open.
My fingertips down the back of your neck and over your shoulder blades, feathery skin, a moment of moving pause.
The field ahead is a blend of green and earth-tones, youth to age, dew to solidity.
I lie you back down, my body collapsing to yours, labia between your teeth, the weight of our bodies solid and transparent.
The sun begins its decent, an orb, a burst, a magic before its rest, coloring our walk, taking away our breaths in moments of awe and recognized bliss.
When I feel my insides collapse into themselves, I press harder to you, losing all of myself to your mouth, my energy becoming yours, lost together, and then: found.
Blonde hair tangled between my fingers as I pull you from the bed, up to my thighs, forehead and cheeks rosy and deepening.
The breeze is gentle, a light touch to the skin, a whispered goodbye of summer and a coy hello of autumn, a comfort in the transition, a blanket in the open.
My fingertips down the back of your neck and over your shoulder blades, feathery skin, a moment of moving pause.
The field ahead is a blend of green and earth-tones, youth to age, dew to solidity.
I lie you back down, my body collapsing to yours, labia between your teeth, the weight of our bodies solid and transparent.
The sun begins its decent, an orb, a burst, a magic before its rest, coloring our walk, taking away our breaths in moments of awe and recognized bliss.
When I feel my insides collapse into themselves, I press harder to you, losing all of myself to your mouth, my energy becoming yours, lost together, and then: found.
Friday, September 12, 2008
upon awakening
To earn Odd-Goof-ball Status - as promised, for you, J. :)
*
It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.
It happens like this:
She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:
Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.
Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.
While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.
This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.
When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.
She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.
*
It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.
It happens like this:
She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:
Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.
Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.
While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.
This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.
When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.
She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
gardens don't tell secrets
It was that time of summer when everything whispered a secret. Or, stood swaying in the light breeze, lips pursed, holding to the hush at the back of the throat, determined that the secret remain so, though tempted by the ecstasy contained in the telling.
Hers was this:
Digging weeds and plucking fresh vegetables from the soil not only helped her to feel grounded and alive, not only made her moist from perspiration, but also summoned: aroused and ready.
She read in a book about people getting back to their roots, back to the ways of their great-great-grandparents, through gardening. She wonders if people of that era also carefully chose the largest cucumber to wash and use as an afternoon companion. And with a laugh, she does, thinking of the coolness touching her entrance, and then the fucking that opens her more with each plunge.
The ride she goes on sheds her outer layers, leaving her in a state of floating and blur. Her head, neck, arms, torso, legs, feet, all collapse into her center, as if she is only a bundle of warm, electric energy right at her vulva and pelvis.
When the heat and momentum implode, muscles clench a harmony and an encore, and she is left feeling the secret on every millimeter of her skin.
Hers was this:
Digging weeds and plucking fresh vegetables from the soil not only helped her to feel grounded and alive, not only made her moist from perspiration, but also summoned: aroused and ready.
She read in a book about people getting back to their roots, back to the ways of their great-great-grandparents, through gardening. She wonders if people of that era also carefully chose the largest cucumber to wash and use as an afternoon companion. And with a laugh, she does, thinking of the coolness touching her entrance, and then the fucking that opens her more with each plunge.
The ride she goes on sheds her outer layers, leaving her in a state of floating and blur. Her head, neck, arms, torso, legs, feet, all collapse into her center, as if she is only a bundle of warm, electric energy right at her vulva and pelvis.
When the heat and momentum implode, muscles clench a harmony and an encore, and she is left feeling the secret on every millimeter of her skin.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
a summer mystery
She wonders how it must feel for a man, the sudden envelopment of heat, silk, liquid. The complete imersion of pulsing nerve endings into their comfort source, their vice, their cliff of steep slope and no return. She imagines the thrill of tight flesh wrapped around, a window that whispers, "It's summer, the heat lies outside in piles, I leave a gap open for a breeze, an escape for this moment, won't you sneak in?"
And, will you?
When you walk into the room, colors of the August sky hanging on the window sill and echoing against walls, when you see her lying there, wrapped in a thin white sheet, like a spider web caught in breeze, when you catch her eyes that cha-cha, yet remain unmoving, will you?
Will you push open the window, allowing a gust of wind to wash over her, stealing away her voice and the smoothness of her heartbeat? Will you feel the way her body loses its form and molds against your own? Will you release yourself into the summer trance and return changed, or at the least, breathless?
She waits.
And, will you?
When you walk into the room, colors of the August sky hanging on the window sill and echoing against walls, when you see her lying there, wrapped in a thin white sheet, like a spider web caught in breeze, when you catch her eyes that cha-cha, yet remain unmoving, will you?
Will you push open the window, allowing a gust of wind to wash over her, stealing away her voice and the smoothness of her heartbeat? Will you feel the way her body loses its form and molds against your own? Will you release yourself into the summer trance and return changed, or at the least, breathless?
She waits.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
august blooms
She likes buying bouquets of flowers. Bundles of sunshine to brighten a whole room with color and soft scent. She chooses carefully, one that feels like August with heat so thick it settles into the skin, then muscles, then bones - yellow, fuchsia, tangerine. On impulse, she buys two.
When she gets home, she puts one in a glass vase in the living room, so that she sees it as she passes throughout the final hours of the afternoon, straightening, dancing, talking on the phone. The other, she rests on the kitchen counter.
When her lover comes home, hair flowing down, office stress releases from her with each step, like residue or a skin being shed. They find each other's lips very quickly as they stumble backward, through the living room and then into the kitchen until they bump abruptly into the counter's edge.
Clothes peel off and it is then that the bouquet is noticed. With a delighted smirk, the one recently home decides to release the rest of her tension. She turns the other around, leaning against the coolness of the surface with bottom and vulva exposed. She grabs the flowers, soft petals and firm stems. Buds rub against the clitoris, then press into the tight and slippery opening. A tease of a few seconds before she pulls away and begins swinging the stems against the curves of ass. Again, again, again with the soft pops forming a melody. Every now and then, the petals brush gentle against sensitive skin, a kiss during downpour. When the flesh goes from baby-girl-rosy to teenage-rocker-pink to do-me-red, she stops.
She weaves her fingers into curly strands, gentle and firm, moving her florist art from the counter to the floor, and presses her own cunt to softly parted lips. She glides, rubs, fucks. Later, she will return th favor, but in this moment, it is all about her and the smell of open flowers, open lust.
When she gets home, she puts one in a glass vase in the living room, so that she sees it as she passes throughout the final hours of the afternoon, straightening, dancing, talking on the phone. The other, she rests on the kitchen counter.
When her lover comes home, hair flowing down, office stress releases from her with each step, like residue or a skin being shed. They find each other's lips very quickly as they stumble backward, through the living room and then into the kitchen until they bump abruptly into the counter's edge.
Clothes peel off and it is then that the bouquet is noticed. With a delighted smirk, the one recently home decides to release the rest of her tension. She turns the other around, leaning against the coolness of the surface with bottom and vulva exposed. She grabs the flowers, soft petals and firm stems. Buds rub against the clitoris, then press into the tight and slippery opening. A tease of a few seconds before she pulls away and begins swinging the stems against the curves of ass. Again, again, again with the soft pops forming a melody. Every now and then, the petals brush gentle against sensitive skin, a kiss during downpour. When the flesh goes from baby-girl-rosy to teenage-rocker-pink to do-me-red, she stops.
She weaves her fingers into curly strands, gentle and firm, moving her florist art from the counter to the floor, and presses her own cunt to softly parted lips. She glides, rubs, fucks. Later, she will return th favor, but in this moment, it is all about her and the smell of open flowers, open lust.
the love in the sex
The song is on the radio - "...only one good thing worth trying to be, and it's love..." This makes her pause and smile. Talking about the sex feels good. But talking about her sex without talking about her love would be incomplete, like a puzzle pieced together with no picture forming.
When she was in highschool, in a bus moving slowly through the neighborhood, she would pretend her eyes were a camera, capturing stills that could later be retreived if carefully indexed in her mind. The swoop of a tree, the trick of shadow and light over the sidewalk, spring in bloom, clouds as objects, a stray ball in a perfectly manicured lawn, simple things.
One of her photos stands out the most: an elderly couple, pushing 80 perhaps, holding hands with a deep tenderness, walking beneath a large and bowing oak as autumn began its descent on the leafs. That's what she wanted, a peaceful love with depth that flowed like bubbling rivers, but felt like a gentle breeze.
It has been over a decade since she first took that photo, imagined it then in black and white to add to its classic quality, and stored it. Now, she is sure she has it with the way he holds her own hand, the way they laugh, the way they kiss each others quirks with gentleness and abandon, the way they have went through life's transitions with some sense of grace, finding ease in storms. They are past that initial infatuation that fills the body is swoops and gasps; they are past the settling in newlywed stretch that aches and wonders; they are years in. They know each other. They know they are everchanging. They know they are in it all together.
They sat at a meeting a few weeks ago and two of the girls joked about how everyone said they should also be married because they do everything together, they buy each other gifts, and they never have sex. They laugh, feeling they know so much about the crazy life dynamics.
But she glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye, catching his own, having to swallow her laugh as she thought about what they'd do when these visitors left, perhaps in that exact spot where the others were sitting so casually.
It's funny, this, to have it all. A stable partner, a best friend, a strong shoulder, a lover who will push her into the floor and make her bite her lip while the carpet rubs against her knees and forearms, wanting to taste every drop of the experience.
When she was in highschool, in a bus moving slowly through the neighborhood, she would pretend her eyes were a camera, capturing stills that could later be retreived if carefully indexed in her mind. The swoop of a tree, the trick of shadow and light over the sidewalk, spring in bloom, clouds as objects, a stray ball in a perfectly manicured lawn, simple things.
One of her photos stands out the most: an elderly couple, pushing 80 perhaps, holding hands with a deep tenderness, walking beneath a large and bowing oak as autumn began its descent on the leafs. That's what she wanted, a peaceful love with depth that flowed like bubbling rivers, but felt like a gentle breeze.
It has been over a decade since she first took that photo, imagined it then in black and white to add to its classic quality, and stored it. Now, she is sure she has it with the way he holds her own hand, the way they laugh, the way they kiss each others quirks with gentleness and abandon, the way they have went through life's transitions with some sense of grace, finding ease in storms. They are past that initial infatuation that fills the body is swoops and gasps; they are past the settling in newlywed stretch that aches and wonders; they are years in. They know each other. They know they are everchanging. They know they are in it all together.
They sat at a meeting a few weeks ago and two of the girls joked about how everyone said they should also be married because they do everything together, they buy each other gifts, and they never have sex. They laugh, feeling they know so much about the crazy life dynamics.
But she glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye, catching his own, having to swallow her laugh as she thought about what they'd do when these visitors left, perhaps in that exact spot where the others were sitting so casually.
It's funny, this, to have it all. A stable partner, a best friend, a strong shoulder, a lover who will push her into the floor and make her bite her lip while the carpet rubs against her knees and forearms, wanting to taste every drop of the experience.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
to be raw
Today, she is rage.
First:
She takes off her clothes, slowly, piece by piece, as if balancing between the inhale and exhale, motionless time. Sandals, skirt, top, bra, hair tie.
She opens the paint tins and finds red, orange, purple, black. She dips her hands in, the slippery liquid coating her palms, fingers, cuticles, gaps beneath her nails, like rain-drenched mud or a sunset ocean. She smears the paint in streams, puddles, clumps against her body. Hair, cheeks, collarbone, breasts, belly, thighs, bottom, calves, toes.
Then:
She slams her body against the white wall, slides down into a sitting position, rolls, presses, claws, kisses, stands again. The paint blurs into the surface, an abstract whirlwind, with a simple pause of truth every now and then: a fingerprint or a strand of hair outlined perfectly or a curve that more than resembles her, like a pressed flower or a sun-print, a piece of refined soul.
Finally:
She is tired. She curls on the floor, and lets her eyes close as the light rolls into the room, an open tide, sweeping her into its arms.
And later:
She'll wake up and take a long shower, yet still carry with her smudges of this rage for days as the dried paint sticks to the creases of her skin, hiding from sight until she notices at random times - using the toilet, waiting in an elevator, doodling in a meeting, having tea with a friend.
Tomorrow, when this afternoon is a distant enough memory, she'll meditate, twist her body into yoga, make jokes with her lover, and be shades of blue, green, peach, the hues of peace and forgiveness and little lullabies.
But today, just today, when he arrives home, she'll be a fire, a scandal, a storm in the bedroom. And in his most breathless moments, he will like it, and wish for more days that are volcanic and raw.
*
Note: Summer company has now all went byebye, yay! So, I should be better about posting weekly - I've managed to almost do weekly, but not quite. If any of you have a story request, please share: gender mix (ie. female / female or whatever) and basic theme. :) I appreciate all of your comments, and plan to respond individually soon. xo.
First:
She takes off her clothes, slowly, piece by piece, as if balancing between the inhale and exhale, motionless time. Sandals, skirt, top, bra, hair tie.
She opens the paint tins and finds red, orange, purple, black. She dips her hands in, the slippery liquid coating her palms, fingers, cuticles, gaps beneath her nails, like rain-drenched mud or a sunset ocean. She smears the paint in streams, puddles, clumps against her body. Hair, cheeks, collarbone, breasts, belly, thighs, bottom, calves, toes.
Then:
She slams her body against the white wall, slides down into a sitting position, rolls, presses, claws, kisses, stands again. The paint blurs into the surface, an abstract whirlwind, with a simple pause of truth every now and then: a fingerprint or a strand of hair outlined perfectly or a curve that more than resembles her, like a pressed flower or a sun-print, a piece of refined soul.
Finally:
She is tired. She curls on the floor, and lets her eyes close as the light rolls into the room, an open tide, sweeping her into its arms.
And later:
She'll wake up and take a long shower, yet still carry with her smudges of this rage for days as the dried paint sticks to the creases of her skin, hiding from sight until she notices at random times - using the toilet, waiting in an elevator, doodling in a meeting, having tea with a friend.
Tomorrow, when this afternoon is a distant enough memory, she'll meditate, twist her body into yoga, make jokes with her lover, and be shades of blue, green, peach, the hues of peace and forgiveness and little lullabies.
But today, just today, when he arrives home, she'll be a fire, a scandal, a storm in the bedroom. And in his most breathless moments, he will like it, and wish for more days that are volcanic and raw.
*
Note: Summer company has now all went byebye, yay! So, I should be better about posting weekly - I've managed to almost do weekly, but not quite. If any of you have a story request, please share: gender mix (ie. female / female or whatever) and basic theme. :) I appreciate all of your comments, and plan to respond individually soon. xo.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
only a fantasy
It's just a fantasy, but sometimes she thinks about it with such clarity that her body is sure it is happening. She can lie there, perfectly still, just breathing against the blankets, her thoughts becoming a movie-scape, then a near reality, and the pulse in her body ripples deeply into her cunt. After a long stretch of this experience, her hands finally find their way to that space between her legs and she climaxes, hard and breathless, in only a few seconds.
The plank of wood is circular, large, and can spin in a horizontal fashion, around and around slowly. There are several with her, wanting this same thing, this abandon and surrender and hours of lust. They are each wrapped in several cuts of fabric, the pieces overlapping in strategic places to allow easy parting and access. Eyes are covered with cloth too. They lie on their backs, far enough away from each other that they don't touch, but close enough to hear breaths when they get heavy. Their legs are bent at the knee with the feet tied three feet a part at the edge of the wheel, bottoms scooted to the edge as well. Available and soon exposed. They are mystery, blindness, presents.
After they are in place, the others come in, and stand around the wheel. The game works like this: The wheel is spun around. When it stops, the person standing has free reign with the person lying in front of them for 10 minutes until it is spun again. The first hour, feet, legs, thighs, warmth and hardness are revealed beyond the layers of fabric. The second, bellies, chests, nipples, hands, arms, neck. The third, mouths. Anything can be used: dildo, vibrator, food, hands, mouth, cock, fingernails, flowers, switches, breath, pleasure or torment. Male and females are mixed. It's chance and thrill.
And so it is this that she imagines, those that are light and exquisite and make her skin feel like silken tingles, those that are rough like a humping animal, those that want to see how much her cunt will stretch open for them as they place an object in and then another until the gasp in her throat almost chokes her, those that leave marks that whisper of rose petals but feel like stings, those that rub their cunts against her toes, those that press and rub against her side and breasts, and those that eventually filll her mouth with their length or wet flesh.
They are focused on what gives them pleasure, but she receives endless - because their pleasure depends upon them rubbing, feeling, plunging, teasing, fucking. She imagines orgasming countless times, thinks she can't handle another, and yet it comes too because she is in no position to move away, or protest, or stop it.
When she - the girl lying in the dim bedroom - does finally allow herself release, it feels like the dozenth or twentieth and she is like a rag, a clump of shed heat. It is then, on this day, that he walks in. She has to laugh, eyes dancing a little sheepishly. She asks him if he wants to know what she was thinking about. He lies near her, breathing in her skin, as she teases with illusive details and then specific moments. It makes her body tingle, and she feels his hardness press to her thigh.
She tells him with a grin that she's too tired, but he can have her breasts. And so, he undresses and straddles her, rubbing his cock against breasts and nipples, making the sensations in her own body build for another round. She remembers reading women complaining about this. She's different - it completely does her in, with her breasts like open exposed nerve endings being plunged into, a delightful fuck massage. When he comes, the warmth splatters against her neck and down her collar bone, and she wants someone or something back inside of her.
The fantasy satisfies them both.
The plank of wood is circular, large, and can spin in a horizontal fashion, around and around slowly. There are several with her, wanting this same thing, this abandon and surrender and hours of lust. They are each wrapped in several cuts of fabric, the pieces overlapping in strategic places to allow easy parting and access. Eyes are covered with cloth too. They lie on their backs, far enough away from each other that they don't touch, but close enough to hear breaths when they get heavy. Their legs are bent at the knee with the feet tied three feet a part at the edge of the wheel, bottoms scooted to the edge as well. Available and soon exposed. They are mystery, blindness, presents.
After they are in place, the others come in, and stand around the wheel. The game works like this: The wheel is spun around. When it stops, the person standing has free reign with the person lying in front of them for 10 minutes until it is spun again. The first hour, feet, legs, thighs, warmth and hardness are revealed beyond the layers of fabric. The second, bellies, chests, nipples, hands, arms, neck. The third, mouths. Anything can be used: dildo, vibrator, food, hands, mouth, cock, fingernails, flowers, switches, breath, pleasure or torment. Male and females are mixed. It's chance and thrill.
And so it is this that she imagines, those that are light and exquisite and make her skin feel like silken tingles, those that are rough like a humping animal, those that want to see how much her cunt will stretch open for them as they place an object in and then another until the gasp in her throat almost chokes her, those that leave marks that whisper of rose petals but feel like stings, those that rub their cunts against her toes, those that press and rub against her side and breasts, and those that eventually filll her mouth with their length or wet flesh.
They are focused on what gives them pleasure, but she receives endless - because their pleasure depends upon them rubbing, feeling, plunging, teasing, fucking. She imagines orgasming countless times, thinks she can't handle another, and yet it comes too because she is in no position to move away, or protest, or stop it.
When she - the girl lying in the dim bedroom - does finally allow herself release, it feels like the dozenth or twentieth and she is like a rag, a clump of shed heat. It is then, on this day, that he walks in. She has to laugh, eyes dancing a little sheepishly. She asks him if he wants to know what she was thinking about. He lies near her, breathing in her skin, as she teases with illusive details and then specific moments. It makes her body tingle, and she feels his hardness press to her thigh.
She tells him with a grin that she's too tired, but he can have her breasts. And so, he undresses and straddles her, rubbing his cock against breasts and nipples, making the sensations in her own body build for another round. She remembers reading women complaining about this. She's different - it completely does her in, with her breasts like open exposed nerve endings being plunged into, a delightful fuck massage. When he comes, the warmth splatters against her neck and down her collar bone, and she wants someone or something back inside of her.
The fantasy satisfies them both.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
side of the road
Certainly slow seduction, sipped drinks, and massaged foreplay have a place, an elegance and lure, a sweetness.
Sometimes, though, she needs this:
She can't wait a second longer. At some point after leaving the house and before arriving at their destination, her mind has wandered and she thinks about her whole body being filled and complete and ravished - mouth, hands, cleavage, and the two below. The cloth of her panties dampens and the tingled ache is making her uncomfortable. She tells him to stop, and he isn't one to deny such whims. They pull the car over, tinted windows a shadow curtain to blur their delight from others passing by.
They end up in the back seat, somehow, with her on top. Her back is to his front because he likes seeing the curve of her ass move up and down frantically in the search of thrill. Today, she doesn't care about views or soft touches or any foreplay. She wants fingernails, force, and a good, quick, hard fuck. She wants to feel the movement in and out, the thrust vibrate and tug up to her clitoris, the stretch and raw dash to climax.
When they arrive at the party, a few minutes late, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright. Her walk is easy, her hips swaying a little more lazily, and others can't help but glance with interest.
*
Another short one after all - hope you still enjoy. :) xo.
Sometimes, though, she needs this:
She can't wait a second longer. At some point after leaving the house and before arriving at their destination, her mind has wandered and she thinks about her whole body being filled and complete and ravished - mouth, hands, cleavage, and the two below. The cloth of her panties dampens and the tingled ache is making her uncomfortable. She tells him to stop, and he isn't one to deny such whims. They pull the car over, tinted windows a shadow curtain to blur their delight from others passing by.
They end up in the back seat, somehow, with her on top. Her back is to his front because he likes seeing the curve of her ass move up and down frantically in the search of thrill. Today, she doesn't care about views or soft touches or any foreplay. She wants fingernails, force, and a good, quick, hard fuck. She wants to feel the movement in and out, the thrust vibrate and tug up to her clitoris, the stretch and raw dash to climax.
When they arrive at the party, a few minutes late, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright. Her walk is easy, her hips swaying a little more lazily, and others can't help but glance with interest.
*
Another short one after all - hope you still enjoy. :) xo.
Monday, July 7, 2008
collapse of moments
Our evening begins like this: Chat that hops back and forth like a melody, fingers weaving together or sneaking a touch here, here, or there. Whispers, laughs, the usual.
Our evening ends like this: I am leaning forward, knees flirting with the edge of the bed, breasts and forearms rubbing against blankets. You are standing behind me, hands on my hips, or sometimes all the way to my neck, my body plunging forward and then back again.
The start and finish blur together, melting the memories of the in-between. Maybe it had substance, or maybe it was empty space, but you and I are both feeling quite a bit complete.
*
Note: A longer story coming later in the week. :) xo.
Our evening ends like this: I am leaning forward, knees flirting with the edge of the bed, breasts and forearms rubbing against blankets. You are standing behind me, hands on my hips, or sometimes all the way to my neck, my body plunging forward and then back again.
The start and finish blur together, melting the memories of the in-between. Maybe it had substance, or maybe it was empty space, but you and I are both feeling quite a bit complete.
*
Note: A longer story coming later in the week. :) xo.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
my time
When the house quiets mid-day, it is mine.
1.
I remember the first time you had me, the thrill, the freshness, escalator ascending. There was a clumbsy charm that has grown to skilled plunge. I liked the taste of you then, and I like it now. I think about love with you. The tugging, stretching, twisting, tangling. Your thrust in and out, your mouth tearing at my nipples. I marinate in it, the details, the moments of frenzy, of passion, of hushed laughs, of blur.
2.
I pick up the book, and flip to where I left off yesterday. Beauty is being taken to the village to be sold for the summer, paddle and dick as punishment (*). It makes me wet, and wanting.
3.
I start rubbing my clitoris, between my thumb and forefinger, steady and firm, and continue reading. The tension builds.
4.
I let the book meet the floor and two fingers melt into my slippery warmth. I hook them upward and press hard, then soft, then hard. The rubbing of my clitoris quickens and the pressure in my cunt stays solid. Minutes slip by, these ripples of momentum piling one on top of another.
5.
I feel it then. The thick, warm quiet that fills my ears and my skin and the air around my body as the heat inside expands and envelopes me like a blanket or a bubble or a puddle. My heart and breath both quicken and still. The quiver beneath my fingers is at that precise point, the moment just at the edge of the cliff, looking around, poised for the next step into open space. The destination is known and awaiting. Everything fades: in this second, it is only my cunt and the approach.
6.
I step. All life in my body seems to collide as the spasms envelope my fingers and push deeply within, making my breaths become gasps as my body releases in scrumptuous convulsions.
7.
I lie there, legs agape, and allow my eyes to close into a peaceful sleep.
-
* Beauty series by Anne Rice.
1.
I remember the first time you had me, the thrill, the freshness, escalator ascending. There was a clumbsy charm that has grown to skilled plunge. I liked the taste of you then, and I like it now. I think about love with you. The tugging, stretching, twisting, tangling. Your thrust in and out, your mouth tearing at my nipples. I marinate in it, the details, the moments of frenzy, of passion, of hushed laughs, of blur.
2.
I pick up the book, and flip to where I left off yesterday. Beauty is being taken to the village to be sold for the summer, paddle and dick as punishment (*). It makes me wet, and wanting.
3.
I start rubbing my clitoris, between my thumb and forefinger, steady and firm, and continue reading. The tension builds.
4.
I let the book meet the floor and two fingers melt into my slippery warmth. I hook them upward and press hard, then soft, then hard. The rubbing of my clitoris quickens and the pressure in my cunt stays solid. Minutes slip by, these ripples of momentum piling one on top of another.
5.
I feel it then. The thick, warm quiet that fills my ears and my skin and the air around my body as the heat inside expands and envelopes me like a blanket or a bubble or a puddle. My heart and breath both quicken and still. The quiver beneath my fingers is at that precise point, the moment just at the edge of the cliff, looking around, poised for the next step into open space. The destination is known and awaiting. Everything fades: in this second, it is only my cunt and the approach.
6.
I step. All life in my body seems to collide as the spasms envelope my fingers and push deeply within, making my breaths become gasps as my body releases in scrumptuous convulsions.
7.
I lie there, legs agape, and allow my eyes to close into a peaceful sleep.
-
* Beauty series by Anne Rice.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
introductions without words
Life is a fast-paced stroll for her, complete with packaged stability, shiny successes, and specific morals. She is a bundle of write-home-about. Lately though, little things have been grating at her nerves, and even taking the same path to work makes her temples tighten in frustration. She has discovered boredom.
She decided that maybe she needed to get out more. When she went into the dating service a few days after the onset, the conversation had started out formal, specific, a planned dinner. Somehow, the truth had leaked out in subtle comments or body language or eyes, and the woman on the other side of the table was just sassy enough to openly suggest this. This. This arrangement. This.
The room is velvet, impenetrable, thick, weighted darkness. The eyes cannot adjust, cannot begin seeing sudden greys and shifting shadows, cannot decode walls, shapes, speckles of light. The room is open space, closed space, pure void. Music is playing, soft enough for mystery, loud enough to melt away any whispers. She is not sure why she is here, but something in the space between her thighs says it is right.
The others here will not know that her hair is a wave of fire when the sun sinks into it, or just how her clothes flow over her hips, or that her green eyes seem to be open spring fields when she's just awakening in the morning. The darkness ensures privacy. If they pass each other on the street later in the afternoon, they will only see a stranger's glance.
She walks forward cautiously, not sure when she will stumble into something or someone. A few steps in, and then she does. A couch, or a chair, and when she moves her hands along its edges, it feels cozy, and long enough that it must be a couch. She considers just sitting, waiting, letting someone else do the clumbsy dance to find her. But, she is tired of lull, she wants action, and so she continues on.
The floor beneath her feet is hard, cool, smooth. She walks, like a drugged ballerina, several extended and cautious steps, and makes it to the opposite wall without any detours or bumps. She then walks along the perimeter of the room, her fingers running lightly along the wallpaper, probably full of dainty flowers and faded innocence and gossipy chats over iced tea. After about twelve or maybe twenty steps, she doesn't know, she ventures out again. This time, she kneels and begins crawling. Maybe she can cover more space, have less restraint in movement; sore knees instead of delay.
After a minute or two, her right hand touches fabric in its voyage forward. Thick, silken, a blanket of some kind. Left hand forward and the tips of her fingers touch skin, soft and slightly crinkled, a foot's arch. She allows her hand to flow up, the hardness of the ankle, the smooth muscles of the calf. She leans forward, rests her face against the skin, smells summer, honeysuckle and breeze. Her lips touch lightly as she moves upward, meeting the oval of the knee, the light indention to its side, the fullness of a thigh. She feels the woman's body shift forward, and then fingers brushing her hair, eyebrows, cheeks, somehow graceful and airy.
She thinks of this as the introduction, in place of the awkwardly confident hand shake, direct gaze, zig-zagging chat. Instead: my skin smells like the cool wind of winter through pines, yours is summer's kiss, both are smooth and palpable. Nice to meet you, and now, into the tangy and coy, a scoot away from tease and mystery.
The woman wiggles down a few inches, the gap between lips and cunt now only centimeters, breaths. Her own hesitation lasts only a second; afterall, she folded up her inhibitions and reservations when she accepted the invitation, no need to pull out that suitcase now for holy indignation. She wants to taste.
Long licks over labia, like lollipops, or maybe a dripping ice cream cone, or perhaps just a girl that smells like flowers and is spread out on a dark floor, wanting. Minutes stretch and compress as she licks, moves skin and flesh into her mouth for sucks, teeth tugs, wet kisses. The outer labia is plump, the inner like stretched silk blowing and sticking to the tide, the clitoris a little lump that fit perfectly between puckered lips, the entrance small yet gaping, as if a dripping and slightly opened doorway, a beach invitation. When she slides two fingers in, feeling, pressing, exploring muscular and spongy decor, the woman moves her thighs and legs in against her cheeks and back of her head, and she is simply: mouth and hands; tongue, teeth, fingers; an equation of movement and sultry force.
As the climatic seizure tumbles into the woman's body, she feels something else: breath near her own cunt, from a mouth and body she hasn't yet met. She accepts the gift of delicate and demanding precision, the digging in of lust, and she thrusts her hips backward, pressing herself to this woman's mouth, allowing electricity to furnace within her seams, a different kind of introduction.
She decided that maybe she needed to get out more. When she went into the dating service a few days after the onset, the conversation had started out formal, specific, a planned dinner. Somehow, the truth had leaked out in subtle comments or body language or eyes, and the woman on the other side of the table was just sassy enough to openly suggest this. This. This arrangement. This.
The room is velvet, impenetrable, thick, weighted darkness. The eyes cannot adjust, cannot begin seeing sudden greys and shifting shadows, cannot decode walls, shapes, speckles of light. The room is open space, closed space, pure void. Music is playing, soft enough for mystery, loud enough to melt away any whispers. She is not sure why she is here, but something in the space between her thighs says it is right.
The others here will not know that her hair is a wave of fire when the sun sinks into it, or just how her clothes flow over her hips, or that her green eyes seem to be open spring fields when she's just awakening in the morning. The darkness ensures privacy. If they pass each other on the street later in the afternoon, they will only see a stranger's glance.
She walks forward cautiously, not sure when she will stumble into something or someone. A few steps in, and then she does. A couch, or a chair, and when she moves her hands along its edges, it feels cozy, and long enough that it must be a couch. She considers just sitting, waiting, letting someone else do the clumbsy dance to find her. But, she is tired of lull, she wants action, and so she continues on.
The floor beneath her feet is hard, cool, smooth. She walks, like a drugged ballerina, several extended and cautious steps, and makes it to the opposite wall without any detours or bumps. She then walks along the perimeter of the room, her fingers running lightly along the wallpaper, probably full of dainty flowers and faded innocence and gossipy chats over iced tea. After about twelve or maybe twenty steps, she doesn't know, she ventures out again. This time, she kneels and begins crawling. Maybe she can cover more space, have less restraint in movement; sore knees instead of delay.
After a minute or two, her right hand touches fabric in its voyage forward. Thick, silken, a blanket of some kind. Left hand forward and the tips of her fingers touch skin, soft and slightly crinkled, a foot's arch. She allows her hand to flow up, the hardness of the ankle, the smooth muscles of the calf. She leans forward, rests her face against the skin, smells summer, honeysuckle and breeze. Her lips touch lightly as she moves upward, meeting the oval of the knee, the light indention to its side, the fullness of a thigh. She feels the woman's body shift forward, and then fingers brushing her hair, eyebrows, cheeks, somehow graceful and airy.
She thinks of this as the introduction, in place of the awkwardly confident hand shake, direct gaze, zig-zagging chat. Instead: my skin smells like the cool wind of winter through pines, yours is summer's kiss, both are smooth and palpable. Nice to meet you, and now, into the tangy and coy, a scoot away from tease and mystery.
The woman wiggles down a few inches, the gap between lips and cunt now only centimeters, breaths. Her own hesitation lasts only a second; afterall, she folded up her inhibitions and reservations when she accepted the invitation, no need to pull out that suitcase now for holy indignation. She wants to taste.
Long licks over labia, like lollipops, or maybe a dripping ice cream cone, or perhaps just a girl that smells like flowers and is spread out on a dark floor, wanting. Minutes stretch and compress as she licks, moves skin and flesh into her mouth for sucks, teeth tugs, wet kisses. The outer labia is plump, the inner like stretched silk blowing and sticking to the tide, the clitoris a little lump that fit perfectly between puckered lips, the entrance small yet gaping, as if a dripping and slightly opened doorway, a beach invitation. When she slides two fingers in, feeling, pressing, exploring muscular and spongy decor, the woman moves her thighs and legs in against her cheeks and back of her head, and she is simply: mouth and hands; tongue, teeth, fingers; an equation of movement and sultry force.
As the climatic seizure tumbles into the woman's body, she feels something else: breath near her own cunt, from a mouth and body she hasn't yet met. She accepts the gift of delicate and demanding precision, the digging in of lust, and she thrusts her hips backward, pressing herself to this woman's mouth, allowing electricity to furnace within her seams, a different kind of introduction.
Monday, June 9, 2008
after the rain
The rain had fallen all day and all night, again and again, a hummed melody of taps, sighs, faraway and next-door rumbles. By the time morning arrived on the tenth day, there was relief when the people of the town found the sky paused and bleached in shades of butter cream, whipped strawberry, and lilac fields, sunlight snuggling into dew and puddles, the air clean and hopeful. Everyone opened windows, donned smiles, placed soggy welcome mats in sunny locations to pull away moisture and give the gift of perfect normalcy once again.
It is on this day, after feeling so trapped, that she decides to take a walk. She steps out, feet bare, knowing that shoes would pose a cleaning hazard with the soil so moist and miniature ponds forming in shallow impressions every couple of yards. She lives on the edge of town, among tall flowers, swaying tress, and prairie grass that goes on for miles, her own golden ocean. She has missed her daily walks, so alone, yet so surrounded by life, a serene voyage into awe.
The birds are noisy, a summer laughter in their songs, and the wind is doing a sway that feels like slow lemonade sips. She walks along, mud painting socks onto her feet, water splashing here and there against her ankles, stray grass and wildness brushing her calves, and occasionally inner thighs. Bugs buzz against her cheeks and shoulders, which she casually brushes away, as she savors the sun's massage on her crown, her neck, her arms, through the back of her dress.
She has been walking a few minutes when she hears a loud rustle, and muffled whispers even - perhaps - though she can't be certain. The sounds are coming from near the creek, a few feet to her right, through a bundle of brush. She is not the type to peek through curtains or listen for strings of information hanging on the edges of conversation. She keeps to herself and lets others live their own lives. But, this is her property after all, she surely has the right, and responsibility, to investigate.
She moves slowly, a snake weaving around and over and through, as quietly as the branches, leafs, crackled grass will allow. She reaches the edge of the clearing, the golden rays of the grass continuing their demure camouflage, and sees them.
Two men, one who has a reputation among both men and women, and the other she knows too well. It was only last night that his lips were to hers, and his whispers collided with her earlobes, and his hardness made her climax. She covers her hand to her mouth, as if it will prevent all sound and reaction from considering a birth into the space between them and her. She can't believe what she is seeing, the audacity, the shame.
Their hands have a strength and certainty, and when he pulls himself out and moves in again, fierceness and passion so woven together that one seems to be the other. Yet, they are laughing and saying things, and all she sees suddenly are blurs and anger and aches in her stomach and abandonment. Time stands on its tipee-toes and holds very, very still for her. How long, she isn't certain.
And when the distant clocks begin ticking again, she is dazed and can't seem to pull herself away. As her eyes dry, she watches closely. The muscles in his bottom rippling, the skin moving in from the pressure of his fingers, the sweat on his forehead, the hair displaced and breezy, the pleasure puddling into his features and lines. The sounds they are making are wild, animals on a sudden encounter. She pretends she doesn't know him, imagines him to be a boy from the next town over. Their wild fuck begins looking like a play, a movie, created with one front row seat, and it is hers.
How it is that the moisture and tension has began building between her legs, she doesn't know. He has disrespected her. She should yell or throw something or look at him with eyes of disdain. Instead, in this moment after time has caught back up with her, she raises her skirt, one hand against her clitoris, and the other slipping inward. As she rubs and humps, they continue their plunge of in and out, in and out, grunting and gasping.
She is very close to her release when the mud beneath her feet suddenly feels like yanked silk, and her body does a slow collapse backward, the goopy soil forming a flowing stream downward, to the creek, to them, to him.
It is only a matter of seconds that she is there, a tangle of half naked embarrassment, panties around ankles, dress twisted up, brown coating her pale skin and clumping into her hair. When the hush of being caught fades into realization, she wonders if they also see: Wet. I can take you both. You weren't love anyway. You asshole. Now. Please. Please.
She rolls over to her belly, soft bundles of flesh and tight entrance poised toward the brightening
sky, and knows that they do see, and that her body will be delighted and raw with their knowledge long after this collision of want.
It is on this day, after feeling so trapped, that she decides to take a walk. She steps out, feet bare, knowing that shoes would pose a cleaning hazard with the soil so moist and miniature ponds forming in shallow impressions every couple of yards. She lives on the edge of town, among tall flowers, swaying tress, and prairie grass that goes on for miles, her own golden ocean. She has missed her daily walks, so alone, yet so surrounded by life, a serene voyage into awe.
The birds are noisy, a summer laughter in their songs, and the wind is doing a sway that feels like slow lemonade sips. She walks along, mud painting socks onto her feet, water splashing here and there against her ankles, stray grass and wildness brushing her calves, and occasionally inner thighs. Bugs buzz against her cheeks and shoulders, which she casually brushes away, as she savors the sun's massage on her crown, her neck, her arms, through the back of her dress.
She has been walking a few minutes when she hears a loud rustle, and muffled whispers even - perhaps - though she can't be certain. The sounds are coming from near the creek, a few feet to her right, through a bundle of brush. She is not the type to peek through curtains or listen for strings of information hanging on the edges of conversation. She keeps to herself and lets others live their own lives. But, this is her property after all, she surely has the right, and responsibility, to investigate.
She moves slowly, a snake weaving around and over and through, as quietly as the branches, leafs, crackled grass will allow. She reaches the edge of the clearing, the golden rays of the grass continuing their demure camouflage, and sees them.
Two men, one who has a reputation among both men and women, and the other she knows too well. It was only last night that his lips were to hers, and his whispers collided with her earlobes, and his hardness made her climax. She covers her hand to her mouth, as if it will prevent all sound and reaction from considering a birth into the space between them and her. She can't believe what she is seeing, the audacity, the shame.
Their hands have a strength and certainty, and when he pulls himself out and moves in again, fierceness and passion so woven together that one seems to be the other. Yet, they are laughing and saying things, and all she sees suddenly are blurs and anger and aches in her stomach and abandonment. Time stands on its tipee-toes and holds very, very still for her. How long, she isn't certain.
And when the distant clocks begin ticking again, she is dazed and can't seem to pull herself away. As her eyes dry, she watches closely. The muscles in his bottom rippling, the skin moving in from the pressure of his fingers, the sweat on his forehead, the hair displaced and breezy, the pleasure puddling into his features and lines. The sounds they are making are wild, animals on a sudden encounter. She pretends she doesn't know him, imagines him to be a boy from the next town over. Their wild fuck begins looking like a play, a movie, created with one front row seat, and it is hers.
How it is that the moisture and tension has began building between her legs, she doesn't know. He has disrespected her. She should yell or throw something or look at him with eyes of disdain. Instead, in this moment after time has caught back up with her, she raises her skirt, one hand against her clitoris, and the other slipping inward. As she rubs and humps, they continue their plunge of in and out, in and out, grunting and gasping.
She is very close to her release when the mud beneath her feet suddenly feels like yanked silk, and her body does a slow collapse backward, the goopy soil forming a flowing stream downward, to the creek, to them, to him.
It is only a matter of seconds that she is there, a tangle of half naked embarrassment, panties around ankles, dress twisted up, brown coating her pale skin and clumping into her hair. When the hush of being caught fades into realization, she wonders if they also see: Wet. I can take you both. You weren't love anyway. You asshole. Now. Please. Please.
She rolls over to her belly, soft bundles of flesh and tight entrance poised toward the brightening
sky, and knows that they do see, and that her body will be delighted and raw with their knowledge long after this collision of want.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
when the moon allows
They had learned this long ago. When clouds suffocate the moon, laying black silks across the fields in sweeping clumps, they can easily escape the confines of their rooms.
She burrows out the white chiffon veil dancing against her window sill, feeling the slabs of wood brush her legs, the crunch of grass, pebbles, dirt beneath her dangling toes, her house bidding a brief goodbye with scrapes and nudges. She darts across the field and ends up in the tangle of brush a mile away.
She does this without anyone being able to capture even a glint of movement, without anyone sensing her body beating against air and wheat. Not even the people lingering on their porches, a late night iced tea in hand, lulled by the swings and slow conversations, suspect.
On these nights, the seduced moon, back turned to the world, drops an invitation as dreams start to seep into their bodies, and they awaken and accept and leave the blankets and fluffed pillows, slide from the house, run, and meet one another. Each day and each night, they hope and long for these nights. When one finally whispers an arrival, it is never ignored.
This brush, their thorny bed for the hour. Two girls turning to women, bound to home not by age, but by duty, blanketed in everyday hush beneath critical eyes and expectations. These two girls, pulling, tugging, holding, squeezing, soft to soft, prying, plunging, gasping. These two girls, wet and open, slaves to the moon.
She burrows out the white chiffon veil dancing against her window sill, feeling the slabs of wood brush her legs, the crunch of grass, pebbles, dirt beneath her dangling toes, her house bidding a brief goodbye with scrapes and nudges. She darts across the field and ends up in the tangle of brush a mile away.
She does this without anyone being able to capture even a glint of movement, without anyone sensing her body beating against air and wheat. Not even the people lingering on their porches, a late night iced tea in hand, lulled by the swings and slow conversations, suspect.
On these nights, the seduced moon, back turned to the world, drops an invitation as dreams start to seep into their bodies, and they awaken and accept and leave the blankets and fluffed pillows, slide from the house, run, and meet one another. Each day and each night, they hope and long for these nights. When one finally whispers an arrival, it is never ignored.
This brush, their thorny bed for the hour. Two girls turning to women, bound to home not by age, but by duty, blanketed in everyday hush beneath critical eyes and expectations. These two girls, pulling, tugging, holding, squeezing, soft to soft, prying, plunging, gasping. These two girls, wet and open, slaves to the moon.
Friday, May 23, 2008
kitchen tropics
Via request: feet.
*
She has been on her feet all day, baking. The kitchen has puddles of warmth lingering on the counters and in the air. Splotches of white and brown powder are lounging on surfaces, tiles, hair, shirt, shorts, bare feet, a dusting that hints of snow, but feels like silk and fields. Her hands are smudged in chocolate and her skin smells of cinnamon. Her body wants to collapse, one part on top of another, like the bowls, spoons, pans heaped in the sink, a careful arrangement of avalanched pause.
When he walks in, she is wiping down the counters with a wet cloth, her shirt slipping over the edge of her right shoulder, revealing the smooth slope, the cliff. Her hair is escaping from the band in the back, breezey waves framing her face. She turns to him, smiles, mouths a tired hello. The wind-tossed, work-drenched look always does him in.
When his hands slip to her waist and press her body to the floor, she doesn't have the ability to even feign resistance. She is a pile of dough, heat, ingredients, and it is his turn to create.
He finds the coconut butter, jar still open on the counter from its daily duty, and cups the substance into his hands. He lifts up her feet, a canvas for his tropical paint, his bakery massage, and rubs the butter from her toes, along her arches, forming a dripping, thick mess that trails up her calves and sporadically plops onto the floor in a work of modern design. When he unzips his pants, a rawness in his eyes, amusement shaping his lips, she knows what is going to come next, and she's not too tired to let out a bashful laugh.
His hardness molds between her arches and begins its frantic plunge back and forth. Her feet are his makeshift cunt, the air is a private beach, and the chaos of baking suddenly seems to have more worth.
*
She has been on her feet all day, baking. The kitchen has puddles of warmth lingering on the counters and in the air. Splotches of white and brown powder are lounging on surfaces, tiles, hair, shirt, shorts, bare feet, a dusting that hints of snow, but feels like silk and fields. Her hands are smudged in chocolate and her skin smells of cinnamon. Her body wants to collapse, one part on top of another, like the bowls, spoons, pans heaped in the sink, a careful arrangement of avalanched pause.
When he walks in, she is wiping down the counters with a wet cloth, her shirt slipping over the edge of her right shoulder, revealing the smooth slope, the cliff. Her hair is escaping from the band in the back, breezey waves framing her face. She turns to him, smiles, mouths a tired hello. The wind-tossed, work-drenched look always does him in.
When his hands slip to her waist and press her body to the floor, she doesn't have the ability to even feign resistance. She is a pile of dough, heat, ingredients, and it is his turn to create.
He finds the coconut butter, jar still open on the counter from its daily duty, and cups the substance into his hands. He lifts up her feet, a canvas for his tropical paint, his bakery massage, and rubs the butter from her toes, along her arches, forming a dripping, thick mess that trails up her calves and sporadically plops onto the floor in a work of modern design. When he unzips his pants, a rawness in his eyes, amusement shaping his lips, she knows what is going to come next, and she's not too tired to let out a bashful laugh.
His hardness molds between her arches and begins its frantic plunge back and forth. Her feet are his makeshift cunt, the air is a private beach, and the chaos of baking suddenly seems to have more worth.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
forest lullaby
Each year, when the summer heat presses to the skin like long, wet kisses, they drive hours and rent a cabin. Wooden slabs, large windows, tangles of vines. It is their escape from cement, routine, a stuffy apartment, their voyage into air that smells of wildflowers and tastes like mist.
Their days here are filled with hikes, reading, naps, light conversation, simple meals, sunlight bubbling through swaying trees. Usually their nights are soft lips, spooned bodies, breaths of silence, and deep sleep. But sometimes, when the moon casts a glow into the room that seems like a coy whisper into an awaiting ear, nudging them away from inhibitions, their nights are this:
The grass is still slippery from the afternoon rain. It is a current against her hair, shoulder blades, spine, bottom, cunt, backs of thighs, ankles. He pulls her, rough hands grasping her underarms and tugging. She is a river, or a boat, or maybe some lifeless thing floating until it hits a shore.
She knows he is seeing: eyes covered in fraying cloth, mahogany hair damp and tangled, lips like crushed strawberries slightly parted, breasts dancing sloppily, hilly terrain, belly button tucked in, a shadow valley, legs stretched out, toes a blooming orchard.
The buzz of insects expands and she knows they must be at the edge of the clearing, ready to go into the forest. Her body then experiences twigs, stones, clumps of fallen leaves, protruding tree roots, ragged bushes, stray flowers. And then, her skin and flesh sore, his breath releasing in bursts, they stop.
He pulls her up and presses her to a large tree, hand on her lower back firmly. The bark kisses her breasts, nipples, belly with scratches and friction. Her feet sink into the soil, mud huddling between her toes, lapping up and over. He moves away from her and she hears only breeze and rustle, cicadas and faint touches of his steps.
Minutes pass, the hum of the forest a lullaby to peel her nerves back, exposing only her overwhelming Yes. Her fingertips, earlobes, nape of neck, bottom crease, clitoris, heat, backs of knees, feet arches, everything, need him, want him, will allow anything for him. By the time he comes back, her labia is a puddle, her thighs damp, and he knows this without looking or feeling. He knows the suspense pries open her whole body.
He wraps the thick vine around her, left shoulder to right waist, around, left thigh to right knee, up, waist again and again, up, the crease beneath her arms, again and again, molding her to the tree. Each breath rubs soft to rough, a struggle, a butterfly packaged back into a cocoon.
There is a pause, and she knows he must be simply looking at her, open, exposed, bound, and realizing this makes her cheeks flush.
When his first two fingers enter her and press the spot behind her public bone, she gasps and knows her wetness is slipping down his fingers, into his palm, maybe even touching his wrist. Gradually, a third finger and forth, and like a rose or maybe simply an oven, she opens more. When his thumb, and eventually, the width of his hand are swallowed into her, she can only hear her breaths and his breaths, loud silence induced from this expansion, this want, this electric current, and if she ever carried within her scarves of modesty, she doesn't know it, or remember it, or even care.
The movement, the pressure, the stretching of his fist within her, the motion of his other hand against her clitoris, make her whole body ache, create a storm in her vulva and in her throat, and the climax that she reaches will make her blush for days.
On nights like these, when the moon does the Argentine tango and lures them out from beneath the covers, when its liquidy light licks the skin's creases, they, too, fuck in a way that they will never speak of in daylight.
Their days here are filled with hikes, reading, naps, light conversation, simple meals, sunlight bubbling through swaying trees. Usually their nights are soft lips, spooned bodies, breaths of silence, and deep sleep. But sometimes, when the moon casts a glow into the room that seems like a coy whisper into an awaiting ear, nudging them away from inhibitions, their nights are this:
The grass is still slippery from the afternoon rain. It is a current against her hair, shoulder blades, spine, bottom, cunt, backs of thighs, ankles. He pulls her, rough hands grasping her underarms and tugging. She is a river, or a boat, or maybe some lifeless thing floating until it hits a shore.
She knows he is seeing: eyes covered in fraying cloth, mahogany hair damp and tangled, lips like crushed strawberries slightly parted, breasts dancing sloppily, hilly terrain, belly button tucked in, a shadow valley, legs stretched out, toes a blooming orchard.
The buzz of insects expands and she knows they must be at the edge of the clearing, ready to go into the forest. Her body then experiences twigs, stones, clumps of fallen leaves, protruding tree roots, ragged bushes, stray flowers. And then, her skin and flesh sore, his breath releasing in bursts, they stop.
He pulls her up and presses her to a large tree, hand on her lower back firmly. The bark kisses her breasts, nipples, belly with scratches and friction. Her feet sink into the soil, mud huddling between her toes, lapping up and over. He moves away from her and she hears only breeze and rustle, cicadas and faint touches of his steps.
Minutes pass, the hum of the forest a lullaby to peel her nerves back, exposing only her overwhelming Yes. Her fingertips, earlobes, nape of neck, bottom crease, clitoris, heat, backs of knees, feet arches, everything, need him, want him, will allow anything for him. By the time he comes back, her labia is a puddle, her thighs damp, and he knows this without looking or feeling. He knows the suspense pries open her whole body.
He wraps the thick vine around her, left shoulder to right waist, around, left thigh to right knee, up, waist again and again, up, the crease beneath her arms, again and again, molding her to the tree. Each breath rubs soft to rough, a struggle, a butterfly packaged back into a cocoon.
There is a pause, and she knows he must be simply looking at her, open, exposed, bound, and realizing this makes her cheeks flush.
When his first two fingers enter her and press the spot behind her public bone, she gasps and knows her wetness is slipping down his fingers, into his palm, maybe even touching his wrist. Gradually, a third finger and forth, and like a rose or maybe simply an oven, she opens more. When his thumb, and eventually, the width of his hand are swallowed into her, she can only hear her breaths and his breaths, loud silence induced from this expansion, this want, this electric current, and if she ever carried within her scarves of modesty, she doesn't know it, or remember it, or even care.
The movement, the pressure, the stretching of his fist within her, the motion of his other hand against her clitoris, make her whole body ache, create a storm in her vulva and in her throat, and the climax that she reaches will make her blush for days.
On nights like these, when the moon does the Argentine tango and lures them out from beneath the covers, when its liquidy light licks the skin's creases, they, too, fuck in a way that they will never speak of in daylight.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
blush of impermanence
The window is open, ceiling to floor, breaths of breeze pushing against the curtains, the moon's hue splattering into the room in lazy tides. It is a night where natural light is strong and all else seems a forced second. We keep the lights off for this reason, our bodies silver and dusty with shadows.
My eyes are closed, as you requested, but I know you are here. I can feel the current of your energy touch my skin in the lightest way, like a whisper or a promise, as you walk across the room, making no sound.
The staircase is lounged against the far wall, and I am here, head on one step, forearms on another, knees further down. The wood smells of age and polish, smoothed roughness against flesh and bone. The breeze sometimes travels into the room in just the right way to slip a finger or two into my exposed cunt, and I shiver, knowing that it will be you, later, when you choose.
Time is a ribbon in the wind, stretching, contracting, here and there, a blur of color and fray. I don't know how long I've been here, but my knees throb, my breasts and belly are sore from the edges of the steps digging claws into silk, my forehead rosy from its rest.
The first blow lunges my body forward, molding me against the unmoving angles. It catches me by surprise. It always does, no matter how aware I am, no matter how much I ache with anticipation, no matter how much I know it will happen. The first always feels unexpected, startling, dangerous. The first always peels open my body and leaves me exposed as a bundle of blood, ligaments, respirations, soul, need.
It is solid, this paddle you use, and leaves marks that grab at me for days. You don't do slow mystery once you start. You are force and fury, lust and momentum. They come steady, fast, hard. One, two, three, four, five, each hit on top of the other. Bashful pink turning to deepening blush, and six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, eventually a red that looks deviant, and when you whisper into my ear later that I am your slut, that same red will remind me that it is true.
My bottom is burning, and my front is tender from the pressure and thrust. I wonder where the bruises will form, wonder if they will peek out beneath the clothes in coming days, making people glance at me with suspicion or pity or occasional understanding. The thoughts don't linger for long because when you pull me up by my hair, all ability to think, speak, or do anything beyond following simple instructions, drips from my body into a puddle at the bottom of these stairs.
My head throbs and my throat holds a gasp, unable to quite let it go, eyes still closed, as your fingers remain in my hair, clenched fists of golden light. You have me standing now and your mouth is near the skin behind my right ear. Your inhalations and exhalations are smooth, relaxed, but I can feel the sizzle within their pause. You release my locks and reach around me, smooth muscular arms against mine, firm breasts to my backbone. And, when the needle breaks the skin, I let you in, slim blade of steel, erect nipple. The collected gasp releases in a moan that is a deeper octave than I could ever duplicate. You leave the needle in, pulling and tugging, searing, drops of red down the slopes and ravine. My body collects within it your own desire, and it sustains me as I feel the rips of pain, the aches, the clench in my torso.
You know my cunt needs you right now. I am wet, vulva and thighs, and within, I feel the building, the the sultry climb up the staircase, the quiver and dizzy transition. One of your hands moves over my breast, down, traces my belly button and then my pelvic bone and then down. I am in sustained pause, hoping, needing. You touch, only the outer borders, your fingers surrounded in my liquid desire. Instead of continuing the trail to my relief, you move over my hip bone, down the curve of my ass, and then, find its entrance. Your finger pushes in, I can feel your knuckle. Your other fingers rub against raw skin. I allow myself to open, to relax in this second. I know this is my only chance, before:
You pull your finger out, move your other arm behind me. I imagine you pulling up your skirt, tight and short, releasing your thick silicone erection. You press it instantly against the gap between my two thick bundles of flesh. Steady, careful, but not slowly. It is only a couple of quick breaths I am allowed as I take you in, one, three, seven inches. The nerve pulses race and collide, and you take me by the hips, slamming into me, an eccentric rhythm that forcefully introduces me to the nearby wall. There is no escaping you now. I would never wish to.
As you move in and out of my bottom, the world is simply waves of you and me and sensation. Later, by the time you decide to touch my cunt again, I will be both numb and fully awake. You will have already allowed me release once, or maybe twice, and I will have tasted you and felt your own avalanche. I will take whatever you give me, whenever you give it.
You sketch a new me with each encounter. I shed my skin for you, and wear the dress you select.
My eyes are closed, as you requested, but I know you are here. I can feel the current of your energy touch my skin in the lightest way, like a whisper or a promise, as you walk across the room, making no sound.
The staircase is lounged against the far wall, and I am here, head on one step, forearms on another, knees further down. The wood smells of age and polish, smoothed roughness against flesh and bone. The breeze sometimes travels into the room in just the right way to slip a finger or two into my exposed cunt, and I shiver, knowing that it will be you, later, when you choose.
Time is a ribbon in the wind, stretching, contracting, here and there, a blur of color and fray. I don't know how long I've been here, but my knees throb, my breasts and belly are sore from the edges of the steps digging claws into silk, my forehead rosy from its rest.
The first blow lunges my body forward, molding me against the unmoving angles. It catches me by surprise. It always does, no matter how aware I am, no matter how much I ache with anticipation, no matter how much I know it will happen. The first always feels unexpected, startling, dangerous. The first always peels open my body and leaves me exposed as a bundle of blood, ligaments, respirations, soul, need.
It is solid, this paddle you use, and leaves marks that grab at me for days. You don't do slow mystery once you start. You are force and fury, lust and momentum. They come steady, fast, hard. One, two, three, four, five, each hit on top of the other. Bashful pink turning to deepening blush, and six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, eventually a red that looks deviant, and when you whisper into my ear later that I am your slut, that same red will remind me that it is true.
My bottom is burning, and my front is tender from the pressure and thrust. I wonder where the bruises will form, wonder if they will peek out beneath the clothes in coming days, making people glance at me with suspicion or pity or occasional understanding. The thoughts don't linger for long because when you pull me up by my hair, all ability to think, speak, or do anything beyond following simple instructions, drips from my body into a puddle at the bottom of these stairs.
My head throbs and my throat holds a gasp, unable to quite let it go, eyes still closed, as your fingers remain in my hair, clenched fists of golden light. You have me standing now and your mouth is near the skin behind my right ear. Your inhalations and exhalations are smooth, relaxed, but I can feel the sizzle within their pause. You release my locks and reach around me, smooth muscular arms against mine, firm breasts to my backbone. And, when the needle breaks the skin, I let you in, slim blade of steel, erect nipple. The collected gasp releases in a moan that is a deeper octave than I could ever duplicate. You leave the needle in, pulling and tugging, searing, drops of red down the slopes and ravine. My body collects within it your own desire, and it sustains me as I feel the rips of pain, the aches, the clench in my torso.
You know my cunt needs you right now. I am wet, vulva and thighs, and within, I feel the building, the the sultry climb up the staircase, the quiver and dizzy transition. One of your hands moves over my breast, down, traces my belly button and then my pelvic bone and then down. I am in sustained pause, hoping, needing. You touch, only the outer borders, your fingers surrounded in my liquid desire. Instead of continuing the trail to my relief, you move over my hip bone, down the curve of my ass, and then, find its entrance. Your finger pushes in, I can feel your knuckle. Your other fingers rub against raw skin. I allow myself to open, to relax in this second. I know this is my only chance, before:
You pull your finger out, move your other arm behind me. I imagine you pulling up your skirt, tight and short, releasing your thick silicone erection. You press it instantly against the gap between my two thick bundles of flesh. Steady, careful, but not slowly. It is only a couple of quick breaths I am allowed as I take you in, one, three, seven inches. The nerve pulses race and collide, and you take me by the hips, slamming into me, an eccentric rhythm that forcefully introduces me to the nearby wall. There is no escaping you now. I would never wish to.
As you move in and out of my bottom, the world is simply waves of you and me and sensation. Later, by the time you decide to touch my cunt again, I will be both numb and fully awake. You will have already allowed me release once, or maybe twice, and I will have tasted you and felt your own avalanche. I will take whatever you give me, whenever you give it.
You sketch a new me with each encounter. I shed my skin for you, and wear the dress you select.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
a supply of filled silence
Sometimes, between coming and going, there is only muted silence.
1.
The three of them are pressed against towels, folded white sheets, embroidered pillow cases, mop handles. The air is bottled lemons and the floor is a matte mirror, waxy glow and squeal. The supply room had been left unlocked, and they had inhabited.
He is on the floor, her chair of flesh and throb. And then, it is her, back to his front, a tangle of hair and moist skin, an opening here - and here - and here. And, then, him, standing, front to her front, her mouth, his cup.
They are very useful to each other, supplying the demand in this supply room of beds and shine; their dirt, their want, touching other people's clean, creating unthinkables.
2.
In the moment that is raw and awake and asleep all at once, thoughts first become still, hushed, lullabied. Then, they arouse for a moment to dance, their limits and edges and cohesiveness blurring into the tiles and cement slabs and earth beneath. And finally, they just melt all together, a death of held breaths and throat breaths and grunting breaths and god-help-me breaths.
This is the way it is for her, taking them both at once.
3.
When their warm liquid is felt within her folds, down her thighs, against her tongue, along the sides of her teeth and puddled behind her puckered lips, when her convulsions of clench and collapse are stilled, an empty book written in freehand, they untangle themselves.
4.
Tissue, water, straightened clothes, smoothed hair, no eye contact, only duty. Hand on doorknob. One out, pause, the next, pause, and the last. There is work.
Sometimes, between coming and going, there is only muted silence. That is all that is needed.
*
Copyright Tasha M, May 2008.
1.
The three of them are pressed against towels, folded white sheets, embroidered pillow cases, mop handles. The air is bottled lemons and the floor is a matte mirror, waxy glow and squeal. The supply room had been left unlocked, and they had inhabited.
He is on the floor, her chair of flesh and throb. And then, it is her, back to his front, a tangle of hair and moist skin, an opening here - and here - and here. And, then, him, standing, front to her front, her mouth, his cup.
They are very useful to each other, supplying the demand in this supply room of beds and shine; their dirt, their want, touching other people's clean, creating unthinkables.
2.
In the moment that is raw and awake and asleep all at once, thoughts first become still, hushed, lullabied. Then, they arouse for a moment to dance, their limits and edges and cohesiveness blurring into the tiles and cement slabs and earth beneath. And finally, they just melt all together, a death of held breaths and throat breaths and grunting breaths and god-help-me breaths.
This is the way it is for her, taking them both at once.
3.
When their warm liquid is felt within her folds, down her thighs, against her tongue, along the sides of her teeth and puddled behind her puckered lips, when her convulsions of clench and collapse are stilled, an empty book written in freehand, they untangle themselves.
4.
Tissue, water, straightened clothes, smoothed hair, no eye contact, only duty. Hand on doorknob. One out, pause, the next, pause, and the last. There is work.
Sometimes, between coming and going, there is only muted silence. That is all that is needed.
*
Copyright Tasha M, May 2008.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
the rose and its thorns
The rose is such a contained flower, yet with a murmur of something else, a rumor of wild within its petals, abandonment pressed into its elegance, heat within its romance.
The stem twirls between her fingers, slowly, a moving meditation of pause and breath. She looks up at him, amusement in her eyes and sass in her lips. "A rose, really? Am I supposed to be impressed by its sheer originality?" A laugh in her throat, chestnut hair swinging over her shoulders in feigned distraught, she turns and begins walking, rose dipping along, a casual grasp, a rigid kite in the air by her thigh.
It is twilight, the moment when everything stands as a silhouette, a memory or hint or suggestion of its former self and future being, deep colors scattered on the horizon, like china silks in a rushed market captured as silence in paused film. She can hear his steps crunch into the path a few feet behind, leafs and gravel dancing in bumps and clinches, whispers and gasps. She bites at her lower lip as she glances over her shoulder. Eyes connect, sand and ocean, and she says, "Think you can catch me?"
Not awaiting an answer, she begins to run, air pressing to her face, white dress twisting around her thighs, strap slipping to the edges of her shoulder, rose still in hand, looking more awakened and electric than when purchased in the posh shop across the street from the coffee house in the heart of town.
Along the path, past random faces taking late night strolls, through trees, against wild brush with stray yellow flowers, among bursts of birds and lonely butterflies, into damp soil and deepening night. Awakened breaths settle into her chest, a blush to her cheeks and breasts, and then an abrupt halt as the water's edge suddenly shimmies at her feet. No where else to run, a world's end, but also a beginning.
He has been there, running at her heels, almost tasting her sweat and feeling her motion, through the minutes, the rise and fall of scenery, the dashing and breathless slipping along, away from crowds and into silence. And, now, finally.
He grabs her waist, hands firm on each side, and presses warm panting lips to the base of her neck, cranio-sacral therapy for lovers. His fingers dig in, dough for kneading, lips opening to teeth. His hold and mouth sink in harder, her breath is both a death and life, held and bursting. One hand down, he takes the rose from her, brushes the soft petals to her calf, a dainty and determined march upward that teases and pretends, before a twist of hand makes the stem claw her inner thigh, thorns to flesh, red on white, and the blossom crashes into her, morning dew settling into its folds hours before daybreak.
He presses her forward, a longing collapse, palms to mud, knees into puddles, clothes a smear of brown and speckled red, and says, "Yes and yes." Her lips press together and she rolls her eyes, playful bemusement. "You've always been one to answer questions and meet challenges. But really, who cares, just fuck me."
And, dress pushed aside, feathery darkness clumping around them, he does.
*
Copyright Tasha M, May 2008.
The stem twirls between her fingers, slowly, a moving meditation of pause and breath. She looks up at him, amusement in her eyes and sass in her lips. "A rose, really? Am I supposed to be impressed by its sheer originality?" A laugh in her throat, chestnut hair swinging over her shoulders in feigned distraught, she turns and begins walking, rose dipping along, a casual grasp, a rigid kite in the air by her thigh.
It is twilight, the moment when everything stands as a silhouette, a memory or hint or suggestion of its former self and future being, deep colors scattered on the horizon, like china silks in a rushed market captured as silence in paused film. She can hear his steps crunch into the path a few feet behind, leafs and gravel dancing in bumps and clinches, whispers and gasps. She bites at her lower lip as she glances over her shoulder. Eyes connect, sand and ocean, and she says, "Think you can catch me?"
Not awaiting an answer, she begins to run, air pressing to her face, white dress twisting around her thighs, strap slipping to the edges of her shoulder, rose still in hand, looking more awakened and electric than when purchased in the posh shop across the street from the coffee house in the heart of town.
Along the path, past random faces taking late night strolls, through trees, against wild brush with stray yellow flowers, among bursts of birds and lonely butterflies, into damp soil and deepening night. Awakened breaths settle into her chest, a blush to her cheeks and breasts, and then an abrupt halt as the water's edge suddenly shimmies at her feet. No where else to run, a world's end, but also a beginning.
He has been there, running at her heels, almost tasting her sweat and feeling her motion, through the minutes, the rise and fall of scenery, the dashing and breathless slipping along, away from crowds and into silence. And, now, finally.
He grabs her waist, hands firm on each side, and presses warm panting lips to the base of her neck, cranio-sacral therapy for lovers. His fingers dig in, dough for kneading, lips opening to teeth. His hold and mouth sink in harder, her breath is both a death and life, held and bursting. One hand down, he takes the rose from her, brushes the soft petals to her calf, a dainty and determined march upward that teases and pretends, before a twist of hand makes the stem claw her inner thigh, thorns to flesh, red on white, and the blossom crashes into her, morning dew settling into its folds hours before daybreak.
He presses her forward, a longing collapse, palms to mud, knees into puddles, clothes a smear of brown and speckled red, and says, "Yes and yes." Her lips press together and she rolls her eyes, playful bemusement. "You've always been one to answer questions and meet challenges. But really, who cares, just fuck me."
And, dress pushed aside, feathery darkness clumping around them, he does.
*
Copyright Tasha M, May 2008.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
the cafe
The creme settles into the liquid, melting clouds and golden mud, the sweetness dancing across red as the mug presses to her lips. Her nails, smudged black, all gloss and dare, trace the empty ring left on the table. She glances up, midnight hair rubbing her cheek, eyes a smirking sea view that say: will you?
And she, the companion, with hair like fire and body that whispers storm, says: "Yes." No questions, no doodled conversation that strays and lingers, no pre-requisites or elaborations or pauses or expectations or anything beyond that moment, that pause between cocoa and office that says: let's.
They stand, abandoning cups still sultry and simmering, and walk through the tangle of tables, the artsy drifters and intellectuals, the students and the businessmen, across the tile with its rhythm of clicks and bangs, into the door that reads "women" beneath a stick figure priss that suddenly looks shocked in her expressionless pose.
The open room has hushed echo clinging to walls and the ceiling, cool lights and the scent of fake summer bouquets. They are alone, if only for a gasp of minutes. And when they press to one another, soft on soft, curve to curve, they can only smell jasmine, and need, and full desire. They can only breathe touch. They can only feel: hot, wet, now.
Yes, let's, yes.
*
Copyright Tasha M, April 2008.
And she, the companion, with hair like fire and body that whispers storm, says: "Yes." No questions, no doodled conversation that strays and lingers, no pre-requisites or elaborations or pauses or expectations or anything beyond that moment, that pause between cocoa and office that says: let's.
They stand, abandoning cups still sultry and simmering, and walk through the tangle of tables, the artsy drifters and intellectuals, the students and the businessmen, across the tile with its rhythm of clicks and bangs, into the door that reads "women" beneath a stick figure priss that suddenly looks shocked in her expressionless pose.
The open room has hushed echo clinging to walls and the ceiling, cool lights and the scent of fake summer bouquets. They are alone, if only for a gasp of minutes. And when they press to one another, soft on soft, curve to curve, they can only smell jasmine, and need, and full desire. They can only breathe touch. They can only feel: hot, wet, now.
Yes, let's, yes.
*
Copyright Tasha M, April 2008.
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