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.

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.