Parsus

When you have been denied, you cannot rest.

Your dreams do not offer succor, only a harsh reminder of unmet need.

Waking from them into the grimness of the pre-dawn.

Mouth empty.

Heart empty.

Folding around the rumpled pillow, sigh of despair creeping out of your nostrils.

Falling back into troubled sleep.

Burdened with waiting during the day. After day.

Yet one night, you turn, tangled in your sheets.

To find her, see her.

There.

Half in the darkness, half-illuminated by the street lamps shining through your window.

Unbuttoning her blouse.

Beckoning your lips to clamp around her dropping swollen nipple.

Arms wrapped around her, cradled against her, you suckle and drink.

Your cock: harder than you think it could be.

Her sweet milk, filling your mouth, warming your throat.

Eagerly, you go from breast to breast. Afraid to stop, afraid she will be gone with the dawn.

Even you can be filled, can be satiated.

To slide into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Finally.

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.

Brush

You are not here.

How can I go to my rest, without the gentle passing of your lips over mine?

The soft satin over your lips, slipping along my heated cheeks and down my chin, while your cock burrows deep inside of me.

Dinner

You fill me. My eyes consume you and my stomach is quieted.

Your mouth is dessert. I kiss you until I am stuffed.

My eyelids lowly fall shut, my head lolls forward onto your shoulder.

You hold a finger beneath my nostrils and count the space between each breath.

When you leave, I starve.

I cannot sleep.

Tossing. Turning. Pacing.

Return to me.

Kill my hunger.

Rock me to sleep.

Keep me in oblivion.

Cold

Shivering. Not just on the surface but inside, deeply.

Come close to me.

Take away the chill that rattles my bones.

Place your lips on mine, so your heat can seep along my jaw, down my neck.

Rub your hands over my skin.

Nestle between my thighs.

Hot; you are burning to the touch.

Enter me.

With each thrust, melt my ice, feel it running down my thighs.

Pressing my forehead to your neck, breathing in the warmth.

My cries mingle with the salvation you give.

Ask

He called to me.

He knelt before me.

His tears wet my bare cold feet.

Stumbling on the words, he asked me to hurt him.

To love him.

I gave him silence. A long exhalation of moist breath.

He told me that he needs to be gently choked.

To be slapped, spit on.

To be overpowered.

His shame is great but his desire, greater.

To hear names of filth whispered in his ears.

Each word making him whole.

Every syllable washing away his false persona, his outer shell imposed by society.

I closed my eyes. Presented him with the curve of my lashes, my still lips.

His fingers wrapped around my ankles.

The outline of his spine under his smooth pale skin.

He begged me to to take him, penetrate him.

Take away the world, obliterate his boundaries.

Please. He said.

I replied with a lack of motion. Rooted in place.

I waited, like the statues in a hushed an dark church, until he pulled away.

His lean and spare form, fading from my downcast view.

He wants.  He aches. He dreams.

I am not an idol.

I do not want worship.

I sent his prayers into the skies, gossamer ribbons floating.

To be caught and answered by another.

Isolation

A click.  A buzz. The light-cool and grey blue, fills the room.

Angling, positioning, adjusting the light.

And you wait.

Until someone bites.

This time, it was subtle, not so explicit. You lured her gently, teased her until she clicked on the button and… watched you.

That is what you want. To be seen.

Last night, you were frustrated, anxious to connect.

You needed an audience, recognition.

No fun for you to do it alone. You need the rush, the thrill.

Junkie. Fiend. Addicted to an mental place.

Unseen by you, yet you are seen by them. Real in real time, in a way that you are not face-to-face.

Relaxed, easy. Taunt, throbbing. Panting, erupting.

Night after night, looking for a woman to look at you.

Further you retreat in your shell by day, only emerging when you are alone and wired.

More and more, you need. Need and need.

You looked at a woman as you walked by this morning, wondering if she will log on later and watch you. Your lips were frozen shut when she turned and smiles at you. She is too close, you must have distance. To function.

At times, you open up your cam, and idly stroke your cock, half-hard. Partially aroused, able to spring to life at a moment’s notice.

For someone, anyone.

You vaguely remember the feel of flesh, of bone, of skin other than your own.

Awash in a controlled climate, the reality is fading.

Life is slipping over you. See it?

No.

For how can the blind lead the blind?

By touch.

Not in your case.

Curatus

Some go to the gym, the temple where they pray with their sweat and give hot bursts of breath as offerings.

Others go to the docs, slinking onto the soft sofas where anxieties are waved and aired out. Soft clouds of grief and despair float from their lips.

Not you.

You go to her. Drop to your knees.

Waiting, trembling for her to diagnose and solve your ailments.

The smell wafts from her leather boots the sweetest aromatherapy.

Your mind hurts. She slaps your face, grips your jaw and ejects saliva in your eager mouth.

As her spit trickles, as the burn in your cheeks subsides, your thoughts calm.

Your heart hurts. The pinch of the clamps cuts right through your breastbone, warming your chest.

Weights are hung off the ends. Your eyes roll back and your back arches, then relaxes, vertebra licking like coins.

Your soul hurts; is twisted in knots. The gag tightens around the back of your head,  as she pushes you face down.

Like a beast pulling a plow, you are mounted. Whipped. Plugged.

At that moment, you heard a sharp snap.

You are aligned. Whole.

They have their therapy; you have yours.

Hysterikos

Then:

Not sure what is wrong with me.

The closer I get to you, the more I itch and pant.

It was said that my uterus wanders, is choking me, but I know the truth.

Your neglect is the stricture around my throat.

Hysterical paroxysm brought by doctors and midwives never satisfy the yearning rooted in my brain.

It comes from my mind, no mater where it manifests. My nipples may yawn and grow hungry for your touch. My thighs quiver in anticipation of your caress.  My cunt moistens, my pussy walls clench tightly, wishing you will forcefully batter them down.

I have asked you to be with me. Not to only be fruitful but because I am joined with you. We are yoked, albeit slightly unevenly.

Yet you are away. When you are here, you treat me like glass. Chastely kiss me. Lightly hug me. Bid me a good night and walk from my door. Unfailingly polite, always solicitous.

But distant.  For in truth, I am an accessory.

Only that, after all.

Thrown

Wanting to rest my face in the crook of your neck. Feel your hair whip around my face, the soft curtain that lulls me into a theta state that pulls me deeper.

Align my universe.

Then the fleshy blade that cuts my butter will rip me out of the dream-which only is the prefix to the stem of you.

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…