In brief

casting a glance backwards…

Winter’ s chill upon us:

He called, desolate. Saying that he could not find the woman to indulge his kinky desires. Rather, he could not find one who would  that fit his tastes.

He needs the medium to surpass the message or he can’t hear. He will not look.

He cannot kiss the custom-made and shiny boots of a woman who is not a dream walking.

Enough of counseling that goes nowhere. I dropped the phone and walked away, his voice rising but not being heard.

Another one speaks of his kids, his ex, his other ex and a parade of people who I shall never meet. Nor care to do so.

It did not matter that I remained silent, envisioning the way the veins stand out in his forearms or how they would feel under my wandering fingertips.

That skin, the color of hot smoky caramel, would pass through my thoughts but never my lips, for he would make complex a very simple situation.

Namely;  strip, savor, stride away.

He was not built for speed or silence.

Sigh.

+

The nip of Autumn creeps over us:

Pushing, he pushes. But like  deaf wall, a mute hunk of wood, an immobile cast of ice, I don’t answer or give.

His wishes are nothing like those half-formed daydreams of my youth.

Dark skies, rapidly moving clouds, deepening shadows–the landscape of his sexuality. I lived my life in the sunshine and my dreams were twice as bright.

He won’t leave. I won’t stay.

Impasse.

And then, just for fun, I tell an avowed Romeo the happy truth: pull up your pants, for in my garden, only pythons are welcome. Anaconda, black mamba. Thread snakes are useless. Blink and I could miss what he assumed was ready for show-n-tell.

So, go away and burrow into the dirt. Won’t be missed.

+

Summer sun spreading so sweetly…

Never able to focus on the beauty of Man, for the wonders of the natural world are so much more pleasurable.

His lips were soft but not softer than the late evening breeze, tossing my blue cotton skirt around my bare legs.

My attention steadily diverted, no matter how hard I concentrated.  The buzz of a bee, the flit of a butterfly replaced his words and gestures.

Only when I rested, late at night, could I think of hard bodies and gentle promises, over the click of the cicadas.

+

Spring, sulkily letting go of clouds…

Didn’t I try to close doors, toss away outdated things

But in my misery, I thought of him. Long, elegant fingers brushing his hair behind his right ear, as his left eye squinted slightly against the curl of smoke from his cigarette.

Like the rain that soaked the warming earth, my juices soaked my panties on my fevered sleep. Or should it be called a running monologue of moments, eyes closed, lost to the waking world?

+

As with all stories there is more but it shall be lost to time.

Like all things…

Twisted

Floating loose, wind passing through.

Then you appear.

With the past.

With unspoken needs.

With useless expectations.

Reaching out, trying to ensnare me, drag hooks into me.

Barbs of unhappiness.

Seeking to rip me into shreds, to bind your wounds.

No.

And no, again.

Another one

The candles are lit.

The treats are passed out. Footsteps fallen away, like the leaves skittering past the door.

Leaving out the silent meal, we wish well upon those who lost to our touch but not forgotten.

Here in the darkness take my robes and leave me bare, as the trees that line our streets.

Closing my eyes, leaning against you chest, I imagine that you are rising higher than I can see, majestic in the night.

Let all that has hurt us fall away.

The pain dissipates.

Taste the pomegranate from lips and feel the grasp of eternity.

I step out of youth into sunset; you are the sacrifice that feeds us both.

Time out of mind, over and over, the circle unfolding.

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?

Simple story

I do give credit where it is due. Thanks, CB. You helped me in a big way.

*

I cut class (yes, I did) to wait for him. Instead of being seen leaving together, it was best to meet there.

The bookstore, of course. Where all good things reside and all pleasures of the known worlds can be found.

On the ride to the bookstore, I wished to hold his hand but my empty hands just sat on my lap, curled slightly. Waiting to be filled with his strong slim fingers.

I beat him by about six minutes. Like a stone I stood, as the waves of passersby flowed over me.

He perched upon me, as a bird does, to keep it’s feet dry. As usual, he slid up behind me, wrapped his fingers across my eyes and whispered in my ear. (What he said is lost to time but he did say something witty and wicked.)

In that glass enclosed doorway, I cocked my head to the side and wondered if things were going to ge better or worse. He smiled at my expression and used his right thumb to smooth the furrow created between my carefully trimmed eyebrows.

Placing a kiss there, he told me that I would get a permanent mark if I kept it up.

He was wrong but maybe it is there, unseen, under my unmarked skin.

*

Purchases in hand, we went out into the sunlight. After the hush and soothing soft glow of the interior aisles, the light seemed twice as bright.

Heading over to our favorite café, he slipped his fingers into mine and gripped tightly. I suppose he wished to make sure I would not float away.

But  I was not planning on leaving him too soon. Not too soon…

*

He liked to order for us, so he did. I sat. Jacket and purse on the back of my chair. My purse that doubled as a book bag at my restless feet.

Under my stroking fingertips-nails glossed with a slight lavender blush-was a book. We promised each other to not read ahead, to not give in to the desire to take it to bed with a cup of warm milk.  Not lie about reading it the next day, fingers crossed behind our backs. (Is it a lie if you did not mean to do it but were too weak to persevere?)

Sharp tiny paper boxes

You.

Experience me.

For you. With you.

In you.

Not give you what has been used by others and left, detritus along the road.

Grit in your shoe that is tossed out and cast to the winds.

—

If I tell every man who strokes my thighs that he is loved, that he is the best, then…what of you?

Must I wear my dark lips and heavily shaded eyes for all, or should I reserve those lips and eyes only for you?

The laces of my corset. The bite of my g-string. The point of my heels.

The arch of my back.

Before during and after you.

For you. With you. A gift to you.

—

What is hidden is yours.

What is secret belongs to you. With you.

All for you.

Not shared by eye, ear, finger, tongue, nose.

Not fodder for the grist of the dull knife of his imagination. Or his.

Only for you. Sharpened on the fine keen edge of your desire.

With you. Shaped to your unconscious need.

—

The joy of me is to give to you.

For you. To you.

Will you let me keep the dark inside, only to be entered by you? Is this abyss one you control?

Or must I be forced into strange shapes, follow the other mass of humanity, conform to showing what is inside to all?

Will you rip me to neat bloody pieces and arrange me, like the petrified bones you dug up in your yard, so long ago?

Into those boxes I abhor?

—

For you, I exist.

With you, I breathe.

Under you, I live.

In you.

I am.

Unity

I was taking too long, I suppose. But that is what girls do. Hair, makeup, daydreaming.

Then, a sharp knock. Followed a three insistent ones.

Irritated, I opened the door. And closed it, as it is only L. My useless stepbrother.

He knocked again and when I did not answer, twisted the knob and stuck his nosy head inside.

“When are you going to be done?”

“When I am finished! Close the door, creep.”

“Who are you  calling creep?”

“You, asshole. Not talking to myself.”

With a satisfied smirk, I went back to my beauty rituals.

For some reason, L is back. He opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind him, as I squealed in irritation.

“I am not dressed. GET OUT OF HERE! You moron!” I was in my lucky red cotton bar and matching boyshirts. Not for L to feast his eyes on me, that was for sure.

Leanign back on his hells, he cocked his head tothe side and coolly appraised me.

“You do not have to be shy. After all, we are family now.” As if 2 years equaled ‘family’. But he said it in a voice that set my nerves on edge.  Just a bit. Not that I would show it.

Frustrated, I decided to ignore him. If I hurried, I could finish my makeup in my bedroom.

After about five tense minutes, I announced I was done.

“Move out of the way, idiot; show’s over.”

“Actually, it is just staritng,” he said, as he blocked my path. As I launched off on a tirade, it was cut off by his hand across my mouth, the other gripping my upper arm.

Temper rising, I fought him but being taller, stronger and possibly crazier, he had me. I was pushed againstt the door and there was nothing I could do but squirm.

Easily, he caught both my wrists in one of his hands and deftly yanked the front of my bra until the closure surrendered. My breasts spilled out, nipples hardening in the process.

I froze-shocked, horrified, appalled. What the hell was going on?

Leaning close to me, so close I could count the hairs of his silky dark eyebrows, he smiled.

And slapped me.

Five seconds later, I was being kissed and my tits encased in his big hands.  I tried to wrench away, but my nipples betrayed me.

His body planted steadily against mine, I could not only feel his hard cock but my fingers. Teasing, pinching, pulling my nips.

Sending a shameful squirt of juice to moisten my cunt.

“How long did you think I would let you play with me?

“Whhaaa..what are you saying?” I was truly stunned by his words.

” Always walking around half-dressed, cleavage showing. Tits hanging out, short skirts. You must have wanted this.”

“No! I did not want this! Let go of me. NOW!” And I renewed my efforts to free myself.

Then he dropped his smirk, his face went blank. His eyes matched the hardness of his cock.

In a flash, he reached in his front right pocket and  balled his fists, hiding what he had. The bad thing was that with his other hand,  he grabbed the straight razor out of the mug on the counter and held it in front of my face.

My smart words crumpled on my tongue.

“Present you tits to me, nasty girl. Do not play virgin. Hurry.”

Because he pressed the razor to my throat, I did as he commanded.  My knees felt weak; not sure if it was all fear or part desire.

“Look at your nipples and do not look away. No talking.”

He pinched the right one. And then the pain.  Of the clamp, of course. I bit down on my scream.

As the pain was ebbing, it was replaced by a fresh wave, as the left nipple was subjected to the same torture.

In my head, the pain was a concrete rose.

“I expect you to wear these until I take them off later. Nod ‘yes’

Barely, I did.

‘Look at yourself, “he said, stepping back.

Taking the place he held, I then turned toward the mirror. Saw myself, my fearful look, my wild eyes.

“I think you will do as I tell you for now on, won’t you?”

I nodded my head in the ‘yes’ signal but inside I was screaming “no no no you crazy fucker NO”.

I felt hope when I heard his Dad call out from downstairs “Anyone here?’, with a slam of the garage door.

In that instant it died, as he cut the side of my underwear and they half fell off me. With a playful slap on my ass, he grinned and said “Count to ten before you come out. BTW, I will be hanging on to this.” He waggled the razor at me.   And like that, he turned that knob-the one I should have locked-and left.

I heard him say, “I am up here, Dad. She will be out on about ten seconds”.  He kept talking but he was on his way downstairs, I could not make out what his receding voice was saying.

I coud make out my shame, my confusion. As I counted to ten, I watched my image blur and  shift  from my angry tears.

End of part I