Janus

We face the past and the future, back to back. Tied tightly together. Flinching as the other is hit, crying as the other is used.

This time, we are bound together; face to face. Hot smooth skin, pressed thigh to thigh, chest to chest.

Feeling the sweat trickle down, leaving sweetened itchy trails, for the mind to follow.

Close enough to see pores, hair follicles, stroma and all the hopes streaming through your mind’s eye.

Algorithm easily predicted. Each drag of nails up your back causes your erection to pres into my stomach. (Later, it will be a faint imprint on my skin, like when my jeans are too tight and the back of the closure nicks my soft skin.)

When you are entered, when you are violated, my body reacts, sways with yours.

You plead with your slitted eyes, I cry out for you, with my open mouth.

Your tears stream down my cheeks and drip upon my collarbone, warm drops that add to the pool already full from mine.

Are we amusing or arousing, the two-backed beat we have become?

Do you recall when we look forward and backward, on in light, one in shadow?

Was it easier then?

Did it feel better?

Was it…

worth it?

Was it?

Trading

Open the boxes. Digital boxes that vibrate as you move your cursor across them.

See them trussed up, like pigs to be roasted, cooked until the flesh becomes sticky sweet, melting on your tongue.

See them twitch, eyes rolling in their heads like dropped marbles on a summer day.

Watch them, rocking back and forth, lost in the notions of what is/what was/what should be/ what must come to pass.

Hear them babble. Sense and nonsense, doubling back and back again, upon itself.

They are interchangeable, because they are not unique. They style themselves so but they are all just pieces of toffee, nestled in crinkly paper, in your big box.

Swap out the blonde for the brunette, the bald one for the ginger.Even male for female.

Try it.

And settle into boredom, thay will not be abated by candies such as these. Made in the factory, not made by hand, not someting from an artisan. Just something that are easily lost and not missed.

They cannot be lost.

Don’t bother to find them.

 

 

Slates

I recall him. Not just in busy moments when I need to slow down the rush of Time  but others fail to calm my curiosity.

His face turned the brightest red and then crimson, as he strained against his bounds, pleading for freedom. His mouth saying one thing but his body pushing against mine.

I gave him captivity, caged of my cock, buried deep into him.

That was his freedom, his wide open fields full of grass and sunshine.

The place I created for him, at the end of my hands.

He bruised so nicely. I would pretend he was my rainbow, shining with color. redorangeyellowbluegreenpurple.

His eyes went from the clear grey of the river to the dark cloudy storms that we used to run and hide from, those warm summer evenings.

He would go from a snarling beast, ready to devour me whole,  to a toy sitting on my shelf, needing repair. Tiger tiger, turned into a star, burning so bright. I wish I may, I wish I might. Make you weep this night.

That was what I turned him into, as I pushed him to the edge of his sanity.

That is what I gave him, his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that I adored so.

He gave me my taste for blonde subs with grey eyes. Skin that flushes easily, eyes that cannot hide the pain racing through that same skin.

No one has emerged from the dark to erase his prints, his presence, on the slate of my mind.

No one.

Plug

The gag slips into her mouth.

Silencing her.

The blindfold is knotted behind her head.

Blinding her.

The rope tightened around her wrists and ankles

Securing her.

Breath hitting the walls. Hers from her fluttering nostrils, his from his steady ones.

Sounds floating across her skin, the low hum of the tool in his guiding hand.

Guiding her.

Past the easy place, the quick burst of release.

Past the level where it hurts but it still feels good.

Into the place where the slickness slips away, where nothing matters more than getting away from the source of pleasure.

The incessant buzz.

The vibration shaking her, rattling her pleas for mercy into disjointed bits, scattered, not making sense.

Smiling gently, he asks his pet if she understands he will not stop until he drives her to the bottom.

She says something but it is lost.

As she is.

Falling down.

Wave after wave, tremor upon tremor.

Orgasms.

Not pretty but painful. Not sweet but scary, like the things that wake you at night but  you cannot see.

Her body, contracting. Possessed by the hope that she can get free.

No. The only exit door is the one she is hiding from.

Falling.

Further.

Hitting walls, scraping her mind along jutting edges and sharp points.

Silent.

Blind.

Secure.

Screaming.

Every muscle taunt,  hardening to the touch; living marble.

Joints creaking, nerves grinding.

All the gears in her head halted.

Then.

She hits.

Bottom.

He sees her.

Stops.

Smiles a bit more.

Waits for her to mentally drag herself off the bottom.

As she sorts her rubbery thoughts, panting, thinking she is done…

He pushes her back down.

Down.

Holds her there.

She has not earned the right to escape through the door.

But she will…

Unnatural

You aren’t like the others.

But you are.

(They are like you and they accept it. Water eroded their shores, crumbled their proudest cliffs.)

You slyly look for what you need, late at night, after even the cicadas have ceased the revelries for the night.

Darkness brushing against the edges of your cheeks, only pushed back by the pale glow of computer screen.

Shaking slightly, your fingers tapping quietly, no longer digits but now your eyes.

Searching.

Aching like the full breasts you want to caress.

Ready to burst and expel your fluids. Mouth watering, eyes moist.

Posed, hoping.

Often receiving zilch, left to wrap yourself silently in the same old memories.

(You remember how she used to grab her nipples and squirt. 

Right. In Your.Mouth.

Hot, warm, sweet. )

But with each examination of the time, the memory tatters and frays around the edges, get creased across the middle.

Maybe now, the tides will turn and wash in your Venus of Willendorf.

In turn, washing away the heavy stink of loneliness that permeates the spaces in which you move.

Cradled in her arms, you will made sound, arranged properly, fixed right. Again.

 

Choice

Pressure.

Late at night, he whispers: I want to see you with another woman.

She murmurs in return: Really I mean..well, I don’t…know.

His eyes are closed, as he pumps and empties into her sea, imagining he is bathed in waves of soft lips, bouncing tits, puckered nipples, cradling thighs, moist clefts and welcoming eyes, full of joy to be pleasing him. Mermaids of his dreams, manifest.

She looks straight ahead, the bare outlines of the dresser stark against the pale wall.

Gasping, he utters: I want to share you; I want to see you get fucked.

Her lips tighten. Tears twinkle in the corner of her eyes, beneath the unconcerned moonlight.

Husband and wife. Long enough to be familiar but not long enough to truly know the other.

~

Again, he asks her. As her mouth is full of him, then his seed. Spitting out his cum and his illusions, she rests her head on his thigh and feels his racing pulse, slowing, slowing.

~

Hands on her throat, he drills into her, as he keeps her eyes and his peeled to the fleshfest playing on the screen.  Before their eyes, women cavort and caress, dragging each other deeper and deeper into ecstasy . Celluloid dreams, digital triggers set up to go off and burn a libido into engulfing flames.

The sound of her ass, slapping against his groin, being drowned out by the voices that float to her ears.

~

Wait.  Said as she blindfolds him.

Feel.  Said  as suddenly, another pair of lips compete with hers,  to taste his neck and chest. His moans are born, tumbling out of his mouth.  Growing and becoming tangible things, crowding the room,  as two sets of hands stroke his cock, tenderly graze his tightened sac.

There, he hangs. On the hook. Suspended in the intersection of what he dreams of and what he finally has.

Look. Said as the blindfold is pulled away. Eyes hazy with lust, he blinks. Sees a woman, like those he has hoped to fuck but never had the chance to do so. Flowing hair, glossy lips, giant tits, radiant skin, firm thighs, long legs, juicy ass, slick shaven cunt.

Turning his head away from Venus, still coated with foam, he is startled to see a man. Standing behind his wife.

Tall. Muscular. Wry smirk. Hung like a fucking horse.

Frowning, confusion spreading across his face, causing his sweat to turn from sweet to sour, filling the room with its stink.

Watch. Said as she turns to the strange man and embraces him. Eagerly offering her warm body for his use.

As modern-day Venus drops to her pretty knees and starts sucking the husband, the wife is positioned and entered.

“First, my dream,”  she said. “Then, yours.”

His protestations lost in the sound of her being opened, penetrated, filled.

Dreams. Coming true.

Somewhat…

 

 

Back|Back

Again.

You did it again.

Roused me from my rest. With your emotion-covered cock.

I do not want it.

I do not want all that goes with it.

The hole you left unfilled has been smoothed and made anew.

By another.

I wash and wash myself, tears streaming in the shower, missing him.

Douching him away, flushing every sweet drop of him down the swirling tide into the drain.

Time is not on my side, so I cannot let you know.

I wish to let you slide into the trail he has left.

Oh, I grit my teeth for that moment.

Not yet…

Scrupulously, I step.

Resentful of the seconds falling past me on the clock.

Time lost with you, better spent with him.

Go on.

Dig into me.

Make me move against you; fevered grunts and sour haste.

Reach around.

Try to kiss my mouth; aches for him.

Fuck me.

Hurry.

Hurry!

Soon…

No more.

Front|Back

I expect you to be awake.

You are not.

Past the stage of pretending.

Truly gone, lost in a surreal landscape where I do not exist, where you have not ever even heard of an idea such as me.

My need has not abated. My erection still pulses.

Your sleeping form is not a deterrent.

Slipping into our desolate bed, feeling the chilled sheets, pulling close to your warm body.
I wedge my fingers under one hip, place my palm on the other.

Angling.

Entering.

Fucking you awake.

Not slowing down at the stop sign of your sleepy sighs and half-murmured questions.

Deeper.
Faster.

Your ass, reverberating with my motion.

Stiff.
Breath reversed, crowding lungs.
Emptying.

Sighing.

Falling away.

Gone in the morning, when the sun shows you what you really want.

Nothing.