Console

Such an endless day. Like all of late.

The sun rises, hangs in the sky and sets. But it seems that I am facing a blank clock with no numerals, no arms but steadily clicking off the seconds.

I hear it but my eyes are blinded to the variations that truly mark the knots of time.

Like the cicadas  that I hear as I leave, as I return.

Here in the perpetual dusk, broken only by the yellow glow of lamps, give me sanctuary.

*

Open your mouth.

Take it away.

Take away the phones, reports, email, chatter, beeps, chirps, reams of paper that dog me.the voices, the shapes, the smells of people who inhabit my space yet really are only cogs in the eternal machine.

Enclose me, take me to the root.

Let me stand, leaning in the doorway, as your lips take my head away from the running numbers and into dead space. Let the hairs of my bush brush against your nose, as I feel my dickhead slip into the constriction of your sweet throat. Let my fingers rest in your silky hair, as you grip my weary thighs, sucking steadily and then fiercely.

Let me flinch from the gentle graze of your teeth.

Do I taste as silky to you, as your mouth feels to me? Does the slight musk of sweat clinging to my tightening sac inspire you to hum so gently as you suck me faster?

Look up at me, take me into the velvet darkness of your eyes.

Your tongue swirls, as you draw me deeper and deeper.

Until I fall into a momentary oblivion, gliding on a series of spurts that push the breath out of my chest.

*

Take me away from everything that is not you; your mouth, your lips, your hands, your skin.

Until I drop my head onto the pillow, only to rise and go back to the ticking, faceless clock. Marking off the path of the sun, in a rhythm that I cannot master.

 

Accumulated

Your mouth opened in surprise when he told you the order for the day. Leaving you no time to prepare your mind, you were forced to your knees and quietly you began.

First, as always was his. The one you are used to and adore. He fills your mouth and your tongue knows every vein, every inch of the velvet pear skin of his shaft.

You cannot ever serve two masters. His cock leads the way, is your lodestar.

Then was the series.

One. You will remember him, for he used a honey almond soap and the smell wafting into your nostrils from his trimmed bush helped you not to cry.

You do not want to do this. But he says do it. And you do.

Two. His cock was weighty, it felt in your mouth you were holding two in mass, not one. You think of him as heavy water.  He must be more than the 5 grams that naturally occurs in us all.

Three. He bruised the back of your throat, for you are not used to suck ing such length. Your think of him as a redwood, growing higher than most.  Your ars burned just as brightly as the red leaves blowing past your windows.

Four. The shame grows.

Five.

Six. Your heart quails.

Seven.

Eight. Your soul has folded upon itself.

Nine.

Then nothing.

Except the labored breath of them all, pulling on their cocks.

Looking at you.

Your eyes are rooted on Him.

He nods.

That tiny nod is your anchor.

You hold onto it, that anchor, as the strained sighs turn to moans which transmute to cries of release.

The lids of your eyes are shutters, covering the world in red filtered light.

Each grunt falling from a pair of lips seems to precede of spurt of hot semen across you face but you lose count of the order.

You imagine the ropes of cum, etching you like glass in an artisan’s workshop.

Finally, your ears pick up the strained breath of final release.

As he forces your mouth open, to take his seed down your throat, you go from feeling dirty to feeling fresh, unsullied.

Your face is coated with the seed of strangers, all for the pleasure of him. Dripping slowly off your chin like candlewax, settling to pool on the upper slope of your breasts.

His murmured praise washes away your worry that he sees you as soiled.

It is enough.

Is it enough?

Reaching

Fasted.

Cleansed.

Prepared.

Presented, gag in your nervous right hand.

Bowing your head, sighing as the buckle is tightened across the back of your head.

Kneeling, for the sweet tight weight of the leather cuffs on your wrists.

Repeated on your ankles.

Struggling to your feet.

Falling onto the bed, face-down. Gasp flowing like melted oxygen from your mouth, dripping, as the plug goes into your eager ass.

Nestled in the soft crushed velvet sheets.

A jewel nestled in a gift box.  A choice handmade chocolate in a display case.

Left there, to complete your devotion.

Alone but not alone really, fluorescence of your thoughts and pleas ringing around your head, sugar plum prayers.

Seeking.

Waiting, as the sensation ebbs from  your joints. The stinging replaced by a laden nothingness.

Hoping fervently.

Seeing God.

See.

See…

Sweet

I recall you taste of cherries, burnished by the sun, steeped in honey and lemon.

Open your mouth. Let me taste you again.

Your tongue-a smooth hard tangerine drop for me to suck.

Let me dig my fingers into the hard bones of your hips, to release the nectar hidden within you.

Press your sugar-coated hands to my breasts and knead my softness, until the heat coming from me turns them sticky.

Put your thumbs to my lips, let me lick them clean.

Let me kneel before you.

Wrap your sticky fingers in my hair, as I use my mouth to  make your eyes roll shut.

I see the veins etched in your neck, as you tumble down the waterfall of caramel dreams.

Warm hot butterscotch down my throat, coating the heart of me.

Indicted

What do we have between us? You are so rough and you rip me, like sandpaper across silk. I am unraveling and tattered.

All we had is incredible, blazing hot, supernova sex. If you can even call it that. What we do doesn’t actually have a name. It is as a thought- I am surrounded by you and when you withdraw from me, I shrink back into nothingness.

I try not hold that, for once the sweat has dried, we hit a wall, over and over until we are battered and bleeding.

On the way to you, I saw a man walking along. From the back, it could have been you. Cocky stance, his purposeful stride, the way his jeans hung on him, the slant of his belt, his beautiful expensive shoes and his hair, the way it was a tad too long but nicely cut, so it enhanced his head and made him look better than fresh baked bread.

It was a portent, for that is what I have of you; the walking away, the silence of your back, you head help high, as your eyes burn and your heart clenches, from the anger I cause to rise in your throat.

I bet it chokes you at night. It just makes me weep.

Deep pool

You run forward.

A babbling brook, a swiftly running stream, water crashing over the falls.

I am not dreaming of standing in the midst of you, watching you froth and eddy. I wish to see you rising, water and steam flowing down your thighs, as you walk toward me in the heat of the day.

Mouth closed.  Hands open, heart overflowing.

Khelônê, I wish you to be. Not because you stirred me to anger and I dropped a house of distaste over you.

Let me dive into you, float in silence.

Lucky pieces

Fortune finds me. I shy away, turn my face, shut my eyes to it. But I hear it walking up behind me, feel the subtle kiss left behind on my cheek.

Right after, you appeared. Sunlight encased in skin, glowing. Warming.

Lips parting in a smile that caused me to close my eyes. Rays seeping out of you. Your hand lightly brushing my arm, leaving a gentle sigh, a brief memory of summer days.

Do you know that you must illuminate the night sky?

Breathing in the air you exhale, I taste jasmine on my tongue.

Once, I neatly refused. Twice brought a promise for later.

*

Watching the sky-soft violet, streaked with rose, fading to plum. The wind was tired and packing to go home for the night.

Water pulling away from the shore, as geese were shadows breaking free and flowing jerkily across the sand.

Then, night descended. First the smell of leather, smoke, vetiver.  Then your voice, coiled around my head. Sitting next to me, the heat of your body singed me.  Dark, dark you are. Inside, outside, every layer.

I was told sulfur stinks. Yet your breath is redolent of cloves.

You ask for later. I pretend that I have it to give.

*

Home

Mundane things. Washing dishes, rinsing dirt from front stairs, cleaning clothes.

Under the hum of the whirring washer, you slip behind me, arms curling tightly, face in my hair. Words of urgency, of alleviating the fullness in your groin tickle the edges of my ear.

One arm still tightly wound, the other moving. Hand goes to my neck, brushes hair aside, for your lips.

Softly, they trace.

Then your teeth graze, making a shiver bolt from my brain to my toes.

The tracing becomes gentle gnawing and sucking.  Your other un-snakes and dives, fingers right into my panties, a heat seeker seeking the fleshy wet target.

Harder and insistent, your mouth, while fingers increasing speed.

You are hurting me, my neck tingling, the skin abrading. I hear the moist sound of your lips.

In my head, the good and the great are mingling, until you bend me over and fill me. Turning  it now into grand, colossal, momentous.

Deep. Hard. Repetition.

I breathe through my mouth, at the roughness. Trying to mount the falcon before if flies away and drags me.

I cannot. I am dangling, by one strap.

Then I let go, as you let go.

We both fall, spasming and crying.

A hard thud. Leaving me bruised, you less so.

After the landing, I hear your breath. I feel my hair flutter past my ear, with the bellow of your lungs.

You lick the skin on my neck, where you have worn away my defenses.

Wincing, I pull you to my face, kiss you.

Taste my blood on your lips.

That slight metallic mixed with your honey tongue.

~~~

A few days later. Routine things, daily movement.

You are away. Maybe thinking of me, maybe not.

But I look at the bruise that is healing. Shudder as I lightly touch it, as I cover it in aloe.

More days.

That bruise.

A mottled rose, fading back into oblivion on the soil that nurtured it.

It is leaving.

My need for you, not so.

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.

Tossed

I fell into a troubled sleep and there you were. As always. Your eyes, full of light. Lips open, words to soothe me tumbling out.

I buried my face in your hair, feeling it spiral and slip past my cheeks, down my arms, the tangled ends brushing my thighs. Moving gently in the breeze.

Then I awoke.

But this time, I could not reach out and touch you, run my fingers along the silky curtain that holds your scent.

Not this time.

Maybe not ever again.

Good

When you call, I do not come. But I will,  eventually.

Like that silky-haired stray that scratched at your door, all through your time at University.

Your hands are seeking my hips but only close around air.

Your teeth are grinding together, wishing my nipples were caught between instead of nothing.

Warmth from my body does not reach you, for when you turn towards me, all you have is a cool pillow, a place where I once was.  A shadow settling in the dark, stirred by your breath.

I am leaving when you arrive. Not staying nearly long enough when I appear.

Running off, not leaving a note. Leaving you to guess.

You talk, I say nothing. I talk, expect no answer in return, for those brief bursts have no need of consent.

When you want my lips, you see my lipstick-stained tissues, tossed to the floor in the bathroom,  floating memories of when you wiped my lips clean with your tongue.

My scent lingers on my robe left hanging on your closet and in my panties tossed carelessly away.

You sigh as your nostrils wonder when they will be greeted by the curling heat of your bath, with me soaking within.

My hair is bound to my head, a tight coil when you want it to be free for your fingers to twist and tangle. Yet other times, I walk around with a tangled nest that you are itching to comb.

Why do you want me?

I do not cook for you, wash your clothes, straighten your untidy dresser drawers. Nor do I chase you with your keys.

Stepping over the mail pooling by your door, I grab the paper from the pile,  on my way to make tea and eat honey by the spoonful. In your clean kitchen that was not cleaned by me.

Not going to have your baby, make a home for you, give any of my life to keep you anchored to this earth one moment more than your fated strand.

What good am I to you?

Is it my arrogant assumption that you will be there, that keeps you…there?

Or is it that when I am there, it is more than any other woman’s here?

Rough, hot, tangy, sweet.

Pounding, sweaty, burning, grinding.

Fulfilling.

The good I am for you-to you…

You know.

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.

[inordinate]

Thoughts of you.

Circling in my head, in the  manner my fellows are buffeted by their whirling passions on the second level of the Inferno.

Your smooth skin, your lean frame.

I imagine you would melt on my tongue, if I dared to taste.  Sweetest cream coating my palates hard and soft .

Only to stuff myself, gorging on you in a rushed, conscious state.

Like my fellows, I look at the acorn and the water and do not partake.

Nimis -Ardenter -Forente.

+++

I sleep in torment but plead with Eunoë to bring her gifts to my waking mind.

The sight of you hits my nostrils like the bite of acetone.  My teeth grind and flake away at the sound of your voice.

My soul-circling on the mountain, veering eternally between levels seven and six.

Wishing.

My body stand at the banks of Acheron, frozen.  Clutching a reed of humility, fingers tingling.

Craving you.

+++

Only the brute is good at coupling, and copulation is the lyricism of the masses. To copulate is to enter into another — and the artist never emerges from himself“. -Baudelaire

Primer

You cannot speak of it.

Without a word from you, I proceed.

Kneeling over you, I sink down on your erect dick.  You did not need to touch me, for I want to moisten and lubricate and let it run down the length of you. To tangle in the silky dark bush that covers your nutsac, that swirls along the root of you and creeps towards your stomach.

The sharp pain of my barely warm cunt encasing you makes us both gasp.

So, I proceed.

I move, slightly. Those are my hips.

My mouth moves at a faster pace. That is what you want.

Reading to you, words from my past. Words that no one else knows, but me and the dawn or the dim candlelight that saw them born.

As I read to you, you relax and yet you go deeper in to me. I receive more and more until I feel you pushing against the mouth of my womb.

I try to angle away but you push me down firmly, causing me to stumble and lose my place along the words that you need so badly to hear.

The words  are coming at a rapid pace, tumbling out of my lips and cracking against your eardrums.  You clench your jaw to keep the sounds in but they are leaking out, like smoke from a chimney on a cold, cold day.

For every story I share, you give me an orgasm.  You hold tightly to my wrists, so that I keep my place and do not drop my book.

My book. A secret journal. The thing that binds us to your fantasies and my heart.

Because you cannot speak, I do.

I use my mouth to push sounds from my reality into yours. My pussy talks to you, as it gets wetter and wetter, coaxing you to get harder than you imagined you could.

I cry out, as you make me come more and more.

You feel my hair brush against the tops of your thighs, as I bow backwards.

The serpent that I have heard of but not seen unwinds and shoots up, it head pushing out of my mouth. My breath pushes past it, bees buzzing as they are released from the hive of my soul.

Because I must, I pull back from the eternity you flung me into and keep reading. The words are blurry to my eyes but I can recite them from the memories craved in my skull.

So, I proceed.

I must push you to where I just emerged from.

I proceed until you are there, trapped;  my name steaming in the crisp air of the darkened room.

Sunstruck

Tired, anxious to get home. Stopped at the store, anyway.

Running my hands along the tops the neatly folded stacks of crisp denim, I grabbed a few pairs. I ignored the chipper, chattering sales clerk and headed for the dressing room. My size is always in stock; slim. Lightening-fast metabolism attributes to persistent ability to wear my jeans a few inches above the promised dick land.

Dropping my bag off my shoulder onto the supposedly soothing marbled clue carpet, I heard a chirp of a text on a phone and a resulting chuckle. Someone is amused.

Great for them.

Kick off shoes. Easily, I was out of my pair and into the new ones. Freeballing has its benefits.

Need to see full body view, so I slipped out my glossy rectangle into the center area, to the three-way mirror.

I looked good. These sit just a bit lower across the hips. Yeah.

Then I saw him. Standing in the room opposite me, watching from the door.

I watched back.

Steadily, he held my gaze. Sleepy grey eyes, dark hair curling at the collar, lips just a bit thin. Angular face, clean-shaven. tanned. Looked like real island trip version, not safety sun from a can. A bit taller than average height.

He smiled, ever so briefly. His parents sprang for the ortho work back in high school, obviously.

Then he unbuttoned his jeans. Slides them down his hips, lets them fall. Steps out of them.

No underwear. Not worried that someone besides me will see him, either.

Nice size package, low hangers. Natural untrimmed pubes.

Smoothly, he shook out his new pair, bent a bit and stepped into them. His gaze never left mine.

Shifting his cock to be comfortable, he zipped up, smoothed his hands down his  thighs halfway. Just a slight edging up of his lips, on the right side.

He walked forward, stood next to me.  I slowly let my eyes trail from his face to his shoulders, down his smooth chest and along his defined lean abs. He had that line of dark hair from his belly button to his bush that I love so well.

I paused at his cock, looked up into his eyes.

Desire hit me.  Felt it in my gut, caused my balls to tighten and my cock to grow.

Moving away, I stepped into my rectangle. He came right after, as if we were tied together already.

Backed against the inadequate mirror, balanced with one foot on my bag, I braced on hand on his right shoulder, the other at his waist.

I opened my mouth to his and the world bloomed.

Lathe

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

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

Smeared

One.

Can I love you, like you, desire you

if you are dripping with piss, lips pasted with excrement ?

No.

Two.

Can I want, embrace, touch you

If you are hard to break, stubborn, recalcitrant?

Yes