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.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
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.
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