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.
Showing posts with label female / female. Show all posts
Showing posts with label female / female. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 13, 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.
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
