prescription

The thing that struck me most, first, were your words, dropping off mid-sentence as I sat and reached beneath my dress to pull off my stockings.

You looked at me as we were chatting our hellos, and I pushed the dress high, so that you could glance from my face, lower, see the red and white panties, hot to the touch now as I waited for you here, waited to take the nylons off until you could watch me, I did. I did.

The thing I noticed next, second, was your face, red, as you shouted into the clear day, the lovely gushing as I straddled you, my red panties in your pocket now, with my keys. Your face, relieved, surprised, yes, already, yes, it was glorious, glorious as the day, and the light, and the grass, the soft wind and buzz of faraway traffic on the highway.

Third, the rush, the glow, spring, your head in my lap. My cunt still throbbing, even now as I write, remembering it, savoring it, all is well, remedy sublime.

resist me

Resisting you is futile.

I knew it then, that first smile, when you glanced at me across a crowded room, watched me cross my legs and watched me look down to straighten my skirt, then look up, to look at you, looking at me, you.

My words twist, convulse, as I lie back on a soft morning, my dressing slow and luxurious, as though I had nowhere in particular to go, though I am dressing to leave for the day. I have nowhere to go, I wish, but to fall back into bed, with you, your dream, you, not here, somehow here, soon here. Your voice drifts off as words turn to meaning. You know what I mean, exactly. You are here.

I wonder, at the time, daylight savings, time lost, time spent, time waiting, time I could say I devoted to you, to desire, to the mere wonder of a moment, lost, spent, awaited, devoted, desired, a moment. One more. That’s all.

 

 

 

new

Friends,

I have been a naughty blogger in recent months, my attention swayed from the here and now to the there and should be. I am back.

Resolutions (quite obvious, I am sure):

Love more. Seek adventure (more). Kick through the snow and dried leaves, and see what lies beneath.

Unbutton a coat. Just one button. Then another. Mmm. Come right in. I have missed you.

Happy New Year.

happy hour

I am thinking of you.

I am thinking how fantastic you look now, your summer fit quite fitting my immediate needs to fuck, to be fucked, to feel your hands running beneath my skirt, and shirt, to feel your fabulous body next to mine.

Skin, I love your skin, hands on skin, so familiar, love your heat growing, grinding, love your hand roughly slapping me as I lie across your lap, naughty you, you so desired, so fucking hot, you so elusively not here right now, not groaning as I push your lovely dildo up your ass, as I take your balls gently into my mouth, oysters, so smooth, take your cock, so hard, how I could screw you silly right now.

Wet, you know I am, know I want you, know that happy hours are for weekdays and not weekends, though I wish, want, take a sip from life, from you, your come still filling my mouth, even now, or the thought of it, of you, thrashing, crashing into my warm cunt, satisfied, very, then, now wanting, wanting you back, here, sip, gulp, let me straddle you, toss my hair back, your kiss, my neck, share, again, now.

once in a while

Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.

I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.

I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.

Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.

We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.

Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.

To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.

tuesday

Hello, darlin’.

Yes, been listening to that old George Jones, here in the late afternoon, early evening now, later, as I look up and am glad to find you here, your fingers wandering up between my open legs as I lean back and explore the day, the tired day, the end of day that I wanted a nap, or, more than that, you, your cock, much more than I let myself ponder even in late summer, even when I am alone in that dreary office and looking at my horoscope, or twitter links, or whatever the Economist thinks that Angela is going to do about the Euro, or some other waste of time because I cannot take another serious thought, want laughter, oh yes, do that, just like that, want you.

Yes, take a sip, my dear, take a sip, it is the 2010 Gigondas, St. Cosmé, 95 by the Wine Spectator, and I am about to drink this glass myself, but drink, drink, lean into me, and love this, love this day and our mock sophistication. I still love this life, want you. Your cock is hard as you watch me. I know I feel so lazy today, my wants just there, not complicated now as I watch you remove your shirt, your taut arms, and finally I rouse enough to wrestle you down and ease my cunt around you, delicious you.

The fan whirs up above, my head now dizzy as I fall into this desire, this want, this hot, wet need, your sweat, your love, your grinding grunt as you turn me round and fuck me hard, the luxury of your finger winding locks of my hair, heat radiating, your scent stirring me all the more as you let yourself come, now, yes, me, yes, slick skin, hot sheets, drunk wine, hunger, the night beyond.

ramble

I woke up late this morning, morning obscured by clouds and Saturday calm, delight of good rest, promise of the day. Cycling today, nowhere to go, but go, still, the gently sloping turns around trees, greenery full now to the edge of the road in the height of summer, heat deferred in the grey day, pedals guiding me around these paths familiar, but not, the tinge of unexplicable nostalgia subtle as I go on, honeysuckle here, where the lightning bugs came out two nights ago. I wanted to show you then, but thought of it anyhow, and now, yes, I would tell you about the honeysuckle, dripping fragrance obvious, but I would still say something, I always do. I would say something about the soaring sweetness of it, the tree swing flying high above the meadow, my heart beating fast when you have finally caught me again, when you have pinned me down, and smile because you don’t have to, unbuttoned, the rush, giddy desire suspended, extended, delicious. Silence is sublime in the space it leaves, space to think and dream, and wonder, and ramble in the hazy world of Saturday.

shoulders

I was thinking, just now, about your shoulders.

I was thinking about you, alone with me, turned back to me while I kneaded your shoulders, sore, exhausted you said as you let your head hang loose, as I felt my nipples harden at the luxury of your muscles, your smooth skin, your naked back.

My hand wanders, you know, wanders down and round, down to your stiff cock, now down to my own slick warmth, my thoughts wandering, your shoulders now over mine, the effort of holding yourself over me, tease, then, the need, your breath soft against my neck, sinking, the initial gratification, then more, want more, yes more, miss you, miss your strength, miss your shoulders, miss this.

grass

The curtain swelled in the breeze, and the chugging chugging down below let into a pause, then another chug, and a whirr, and my peace was broken in the warm morning. The clock said ten a.m., which was impossible, I thought, the neighbors disturbing my morning so early, not so early, not the neighbors. It was you. You, tracing along the edge of hostas in the only shadows of a hot day, the tall grass lying in clumps as you circle my yard.

I am not supposed to be here, not now, not supposed to watch you bending to wipe your head with the bottom of that wet t-shirt. The grass has held the last days’ rain, now the sweet ancient scent of weeds, and summer, and the grass, small blades stuck to your calves and sockless ankles. Tea from the jug on the back porch, melting the ice as I pour it, and you look up. I didn’t bother to dress.

Grass rinses down the shower drain, soap smooth as I lather your chest, your tight back, familiar paths, the sliding mm, swell tightening, slick lather speeds my hand. I cannot help but grab you, you near bursting beneath the hot water, dirt rinsing from your neck, irresistible astringent, you Tarzan, I kiss your shoulders, your rough face, your tongue warm and soft while you pin me to the tiles, kick my legs open, the water beading in my hair, waiting, waiting, I gasp. You smile, and kiss my cheek, reach for two towels, hand me one.

You are silent as you bend to dry your feet, arousal on hold.

You are face down now, waiting for me this time, waiting for what? a whip? a kiss, a finger, my call, grass, delight, once, twice, three strikes, my, your red shoulders, the t-shirt, then when you will have gone, a ghost, a gift, a moment, a wait, a great desire, to sleep again.

cake

It was the meringue that did me in, I said, love, the bite into browned edges, the yielding to soft sweet foam inside. Favorite things. Luxuries like chocolate mousse between the layers, the génoise, the peonies surrounding the plate.

Cool sheets, dark room, the scent of your skin, your cool tongue teasing my lust left ajar. The contrast of textures,  kindling of a kiss, wet, desire, yes, aching, restless.

I lied when I said it was about the cake.