Cohesive

*For a woman who does not see that her body is beautiful*

It is raining. Not a hard steady downpour or a romantic pitter-patter.

It is that foggy drizzle that clings to the skin like cobwebs. The sky is dim and murky, like cloudy steel that will fall down to earth one shocking moment.

Stripping out of your damp and sticky clothes, wiping yourself dry with a soft blue towel, the irritation remains.  Dislike settles over you, as your eyes close upon tears.

Unhappy. Unsatisfied, critical. Of your body, the marvelous vehicle that belongs solely to you.

*

He comes in and calls your name, his footsteps a familiar tattoo on the floor.

Hurriedly, you arrange your face and body in welcoming lines. Yet your eyes cannot so easily throw up a mirage.

Kneeling next to you, he asks what us wrong. you don’t talk–the tears pooling off your lashes speak of what you cannot move your lips to say.

He makes the sounds of comfort. But it is his hands that calm you.

**

His hands in your hair. Fingers running across your face, down your neck.

Palms across your shoulders, gripping your anxiety and pulling it out.

His lips following, as his hands curve around to your breasts and trail own you stomach, to your thighs.

His lips now giving way to his tongue, as he massages you calves and feet.

Turning over at his command, your face burning, because he is nibbling behind your knees and moaning softly.

His mouth marching up your thighs to your ass. Where he lingers.

Plays, wallows. A place you loathe is his island paradise.

Sliding up, nestling against the curves of you, his breath skips up your spine, inch by inch.

His face, his lips right next to your ear. Whispering how lovely, how delicious, how beautiful your body is.

How it excites him, terrifies him, pulls his inexplicably towards your bed again and again.

***

Pressing his lips against your closed eyelids, he pushes your thighs apart and runs his fingers across your shaven cleft, your clit awakening and peeping out.

Giving in to the motion of his hands.  The shadows of your form materialize and become solid for you. You have felt separated, disjointed, ungainly.

He always saw you and thought Venus was visiting the earth, looking to grace him with her love.

As his fingers move faster and faster, you gain weight and space in your head. Instead of shadow and dark, you see joy and light.

The body that you were ashamed of becomes your crown. The gift that gives pleasure.

There in your bed, under that dark, heavy soon-to-fall sky, you are collected into one shining gorgeous piece.

Now

Waiting.

Not long now.  You will be walking in the door.

About 4, I thought of you and got hard. It hasn’t gone away, just alternates between raging and a mild throb.

You are here.

Unzip my pants. Take it in your mouth, get it wet.

Trace the veins with your tongue, your fingers.

Lick my sac, take it into your warm, wet mouth.

Bend over.

Don’t talk to me. Obey.

Hold on to the table, as I hold on to your hips and fill you.

Your sighs and gasps are subsumed into my moans.

It delights you.

It hurts you.

To be used.

That is your purpose.

For now.

So you think

There you are, so fresh and sweet-faced.

But your  turgid and pulsating cock swings to painful attention when I pass.

It screams that you are a man, no matter the tender contours of your face. The crisp newness of your college degree hanging just slightly askew on your stark white bedroom wall. The new leather smell of your car; the gleam of your newly-minted money from your first real adult wages job.

Because you cannot understand that I do not possess the secrets of the universe between my legs, you sniff around my skirts like a rabid hyena in need of bloody meat.

Your eyes are on me-your sparrow. Mine are on…men who fill my dreams, as I do yours.

You think that because your piston fires rapidly, that your gun can pop off round after round, that your sac is smooth and tight as a drum, that you matter.

As you pull on your over-eager cock at night, wishing it was my lips wrapped around you, I am sleeping. Not dreaming of your body, but only of the silence so dark, it rivals a tomb.

When I awake, it is a man that causes me to smile.When I deign to spend my morning in such a fashion, that is.

Not you, you half-formed idealist.You do not darken the threshold of a spare thought.

All I have for you is orgasmic heartache, spasmodic pain. Tears mingled with shock that you were fooled.

Run. Run back into the woods, in the shelter of the quiet copse where you belong, close to your dam and sire.

For you are not old enough, strong enough, wise enough. You cannot spread me and ride me under I am in a panting lather.

You are not ready nor tall enough in your mind, to ride this ride.

Kiss my shadow as it floats over you in farewell, for my kindness.

I could have held your mind in my hands and cracked that tender egg open.

Carelessly letting the yolk spill between my fingers, distracted by other matters as I shake it from my slippery palms.

Yearn

My lips will not caress or embrace the sounds.

I leave it to my eyes to tell you.

That I want to run my fingers across your mouth.

Slip my hands down the front of your narrow jeans.

Hold the heart of you.

And feel it beat, beat, beat…

Apotheosis

Our lips. On each other.

Seeking out the most intimate places. The secrets that are only exposed to gain.

Digging, rooting.

Falling away then falling into.

~

Nose buried in the silky nest, mouth pressed against the generative Source. The tender puckered skin relaxing, as my saliva coats each nut.

Tickling your sac with my breath, causing you to lose yours.

Heat rising, brushing past my cheeks.  Pulse of your heart under my fingertips, as my tongue traces the veins, etched from root to crown.

Slowly. Again. Again.

Again.

Until I hear the drip of your tears, swelling and running over the mushroom head.

The way I make you feel results in tears. Drops of salt and fluid that bypass your eyes and leak easily from your dick.

I pull harder, to make you cry a bit more.

Your tears. Your warm tears.

Fills my heart.

~

Warm. Soft. A boundary that beckons you.

Then you part the fleshy soft labia and it becomes a state of being–wet.

Wet.

Slick. Moist. An oasis for you to rest in, to dream.

It is not enough to use your fingers. Or your tongue.

Pushing, pushing you try to enter, to dive in the Primordial sea.

My clitoris becomes your raft, as you navigate.

Finding your way.

Then the waterfall crashes over you.

Wave after wave.

My thighs are your shore.

~

Arranged in polarity, we enter.

Here, in this place, we give and take.

Your tongue swirls, my suction increases.

Push.  Closer.

You are my lungs, the way I breathe.

I take more and more of you until I am nothing by throat. Open, sounds rushing out into the damp evening air.

Taking all of you.

Erupt, as you did before when you answered to Min and flood, turning me into your arbor.

Your milk seeps into every crevice.

The pressure you exert between my thighs.  You are the vacuum, the Great Attractor.

Drawing me towards you, pulling me apart on the journey to oblivion.

Over and over, I  shudder and tiny slivers die.

I am unbinding. The shuttle flying fast of your mouth, undoing.

All that is left is my voice, swallowed by you.

Hold it inside of you, so that I may be reborn.

~

You are the ancient , sought by many.

Found by me.

Modeling the cosmos.

Enumeration

Count them.

3 sets of lips, moist. 3 tongues, eager to dip in, to trail along.

3 minds. 3 hearts. 3 libidos burning burning bright.

One woman, 2 men.

Single goal: Ecstasy.  Via tearing through the boundaries of skin and feeling that separate, makes us discrete organic forms.

and so

2 breasts, 2 sets of pinching fingers, double shocks of delirious pain spooling.

Those nipples, hungry to be touched. To grow, to be seen.

To be.

and then

3 pairs of legs, tangled.  3 pairs of toes, digging into the sheets.  2 pairs of buttocks flexing, pumping. One grinding upwards, ever upwards.

2 hard dicks, 2 sets of tightly clenched balls, need to be drained. Along with the psyches that whispered more more more.

therefore

One pair of smooth thighs, held open.  1 hand on each side of the moist juicy cleft, spreading it. 1 dick plunging in deep. 1 finger on that hard hard clit, until it pulsed.

A cunt, weeping  joy.

One cry of pleasure. 2 pending.

and that means

One hole is filled-hers that wept. As well as her wet, sucking mouth.

3 bodies in rhythmic motion. Each straining.

Until the veil begins to unravel.  Warp letting go of weft until it becomes a gossamer pile of  thread.

Floating floating, 3 floating.

3 bodies, releasing sweat. Releasing tension.

Collapsing.

Just as those 2 pairs of tight nutsacs did.

finally

3 limps bodies. 3 hearts, losing extra beats.

10 relaxed fingers.  6 limp legs, 6 tired arms.

3 pairs of eyelids fluttering closed.

One huge sigh.

Deniers {quatre}

3rd of this

Hear the gentle drip of the flowers. Shedding petal after petal, each hitting the chilly sunlit tile.

Silky thuds that bring to my mind your hands on my ass, hitting until you feel the tension in your chest subside.

The flowers are part of the tableau that focuses your adoration to forces I cannot embrace.

Vous offrez à vos pensées.

I wonder if what you offer pleases them.

~ ~ ~

Coming towards me, mouth open and soft. You take my hand and I see the flash of the razor in your eyes.

You cannot give my belief; my blood will suffice.

Your mouth-your sweet soft mouth-covers the stinging wound in my right palm and sucks away the pain.

Votre offre à votre amour.

Seeking to manifest here what only exists in the heavens.

~ ~ ~

Combined with the hair of the earth and hair of your own head, the flame consumes, burning away my blood that mingles with it all.

I watch the power you harness expand in your eyes.

Make me the Queen to your King, to bring forth the Lord of the fertile land.

Hard. Sharp.Violent.

Votre offre à votre corps.

Pound my flesh into submission; subdue me as men have always trampled the gentle earth.

~ ~ ~

All is wrapped in layers of rest. The moonlight traces a silvery finger along your cheek.

I press my lips to it, hoping to absorb just a bit of that light.

You stir. Your eyes flicker open and close, as you partially breathe my name, the tail end of it pushed back into your slumber.

Your eyes swim against your lids, unseeing but full of things that drive men mad.

Votre offre à votre dévouement.

I wonder if that is enough for you.

~~~

Running though my dream scape of flowers. Huge riotous burning bright tulips, black triple peonies, double dahlias so heavy the are bowed to the earth.  They call me to touch them, stroke their platonic solids.

I pull my fingers away and they are glazed with blood.

I scream in shock but you do not come.

You belong to them.

~~~

Fini.

Épées {trois}

1st of this

2nd of this

The air is chilly. Your voice floats through it, to my ears.

You want me to come out, into the velvet night.

Drawing a steady breath, I join you.  The smoke from flickering candles hangs just above our heads.

Hair unbound, bare as you were in the womb, you motion me to stop and  stand still.

Vous cherchez ce que je n’ai pas.

My mouth tastes of dead animal flesh and sweet bone marrow.

***

What use am I to you? My skepticism is swirling off my chest, tendrils reaching for your heart.

Softly, you tell me to remove my clothes but maintain my distance from you.

The wind is making zippers of my skin-chill bumps flashing up and across.

Vous cherchez ce que je ne vois pas.

I close my eyes to fall into the rhythm of your words. But I float just on top of the stream.

***

You reach the end, voice rising and falling like the tide.

The candle in your hand is extinguished and carefully set on the stone at your feet.

Steam rises subtly from your skin, sweat evaporating to join the eternal miasma.

Vous cherchez ce que je n’entends pas.

You break your circle and fall upon me, the grass jabbing the bottoms of my feet.

***

Your tongue is hard and insistent. You fingers pinch and twist.

You ask if I love you.

I answer by enveloping your eager cock in my mouth.

Vous cherchez ce que je ne veux pas.

Your slip your fingers in and out of my cunt, to match the speed of my suction.

***

I  push you forward. Shaking with drawn energy, you expel and fill my throat.

Your cry of release  strikes the air like crows on a cloudy day.

Inside, you are empty, washed clean.  A proper vessel to offer adoration.

Vous cherchez ce que je n’ai pas besoin.

I am filled with you and with a bitter longing to be part of you.

***

You penetrate and cut me, oblivious of the wounds I bear.

Vous avez besoin de ce que je n’ai pas.

***

My dreams are sharp, sudden. I walk through a field of blooming flowers. Some are without leaves, others without bulbs.

Coupes (deaux)

1st of this

Curious, I watch you. Chanting, burning, offering, pleading.

An interaction I do not share.  It pains me to share you.

You open your heart and mind to them, laying bare your need. You toss your love at their feet like runes across the ice.

Vous êtes en leur offrant des choses que je veux.

Those things are yours to give, not mine to take.

- – -

You tell me, once you have bathed and come back to the present world, that it is not my job to give. I was made to receive. You.

I hide my gaze, but my face betrays my thought. Slipping close, you cup the back of my head and press your lips to my chin. Next, my lips, and then my eyes.

Your fingertips brush a path along my jaw, down my throat and to my nipples, which you pinch. Not ready for you, I gasp at the pain.

You do not stop. I am to yield, to receive, to be filled.

Your tenderness is not with us now, in your bed.

Vous avez donné que, aussi bien.

They can resist you, turn away from you. I cannot.

- – -

I try to look away, to turn my gaze inward. You hold my face in both hands and say it only once, “look at me.”

To remind me to soften, to take, you mix the pain with pleasure.

Supine, the constant pressure and twisting of my tender nipples is mingled with your sweet kisses. The rhythmic bump of your cockhead against my slippery clit pushes me towards joy, while the increasing pain on your teeth on my breast pulls me away.

Vous donner que pour moi.

Then you position my hands, to spread my pussy lips open. Your eyes go from there to my face and you say “Show me the pearl of the world.”

—

A ritual played out in many places, in many ages.

The blade plunges into the chalice. Wine and water are poured into the ceremonial cup to be received by the faithful. A flame is lit and burn with the curved confines of metal.

You enter and retreat, over and over, as I furiously rub my clit. To do as you asked.

Words fail me, and I fight to keep my eyes on you, fight to let go, fight to obey.

I accept the spasms, the length of you, the flood of your release.

I am your saving cup and your altar.

Que je donne à vous.

The pearl gleams, as you gently caress it and I start to cry. Yielding tears from my eyes and my cunt.

You rest your left hand on my chest and feel my heart leap into your hand.

—

I am seduced by stories of gods and giants. In my dreams, I chase and chase.

Bâtons [une]

I do not believe in the things you tell me are real.  I only trust what I can see, taste, touch, feel, smell.

I see your eyes, flaring brightly when I drop my towel to step into the shower.

Thus, they-your eyes, my skin, the hot water- are real.

As well as the taste of oranges still clinging to your lips in the morning. The feel of your hand, as you hook the back of my jeans and yank me to you, to diffuse your tension after I have been gone with answering my phone for three days. That is real.

You, pushing my legs open until it hurts, that is tangible. The smell of your semen in my panties, when I take them off to clean them, that is a reality I cannot deny.

You are not ashamed of your views, your attachment to the mystical in a rational, orderly world.

Vous y croire, il doit être réel.

Incense lit, flowers laid just so, your words the proper offering for your deities.

~~~

When you walked away, I stood there. Waiting. Not to be seen as an interloper but to feel even a small part of the power that to step into, that flows around your ankles like water.

Water is wet, leaves a stain, dampness. No such evidence exists on you.

I only feel that power through your will.

Your determination to fuck me so hard that  long after the moment has passed, every step I take echoes with soreness. The sting of urination, as I gingerly angle to relieve myself and fail, wincing from the sensation. Tender abraded pussy combined with warm piss.

Je me sens, donc elle doit être réel.

Water runs, soap rinses away. Wringing out my red panties, hanging them to dry on the shower rail.

~~~

Walking softly past, I do not call attention to myself, as you concentrate in your worship.

I crept into your bed, to wait, to dream, to pretend you worshiped me. But only pretend, for I cannot abide being more than I am.

They have your soul. Your body turns back to me.

As Zeus descending, I am your Leda, Io, Semele, Niobe.

I wanted to be Mnemosyne. Strong with you, strong without you. But my frail flesh betrays my will and flees to you.

All I  know of staves, wands, rods-is the one you wield.

Persistently, often roughly, you command me. Pushing, ramming, stabbing, plunging.

J’ai le sentiment que vous. Vous devez être réel.

You call my name when you come. That makes me real, makes me true.

~~~

I close my eyes when we are done and dream of what it must be like to be your god.

Lathe

I want to lick away the sweat that pours off you.

It is as abundant as the moisture flowing down my thighs.

Threads

Human hair-a strand- is said to be able to hold as much as 100 grams in weight before it snaps.

That was what drew me to you; your hair. It was so vibrant, full of life, long and shiny.

It moved and swirled about regardless of your will or temperament.

When I would get up in the dark to go to the bathroom, I had to be careful, for I would get tangled in it and pull  you awake.

You would mumble “ouch”, as you feel back into the abyss of sleep, dreaming.

Hair is said to grow about a centimetre every 30 days.

Your hair smelled of aloe and whatever else you used to tame it.  Sometimes it held your cologne.

I would hold it away from your face, when you were over me, so that I could see your face in the dusk.

Falling around us, it create a universe with a world, just for us.

I would dig my fingers in it when I kissed you, as the sweat dried upon our bodies.

Hair is thought to grow to riotous lengths if it is uncut.

I would watch you wash it, comb it. See it snake down your back, as you emerged from the shower.

When it dried to it’s natural luster, it fell past your hips.

Once, you leaned into me and asked if I loved you.  If I truly cared.

I embraced you and your hair and reminded you that I did.

Hair is thought to fall out after a life cycle of 4 years.

I knew we did not have much time, so I bended and twisted to make time for you.

When you would grab my hips from behind, you would bury your face in my hair and tell me dear things.

Such as how enticing the curve of my ass was, how looking at me made you happy. And hard.

That I reminded you of something you lost, that I gave you rest.

Hair is said to be able to support 2 tonnes of weight- if a full head is combined and braided.

It did not matter how much we liked each other, for we have different cycles of life to complete.

You needed something I cannot give; I wanted something you cannot offer.

It did not matter when we were naked, close, touching.

Grinding into each other. Chasing the time away.