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.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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.
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