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.