sunday, late

Come to bed, sweet, come now.

I should have fallen asleep now hours ago, or before now, anyway. The night has grown late, and I wait for you, want you, cannot sleep.

I have found the turquoise nightgown, the old one, vintage, some fantasy from long ago. It charms you, I know, with its ruffles, the polyester lining beneath chiffon, my hair up, now down as you unfasten it, let my dark strands fall onto my shoulders, and you, the kiss of red wine.. I drink from your glass, and yes, it is wonderful. For this I stay up late, just to watch you walk into the room, then turn, aroused by my nightly reading, your hand on the hem of the skirt.

You are quick, my love, your clothing tossed to the ground so quickly, so hurriedly, as I barely have the chance to enjoy the slow exposure of your fine flesh, your trousers bulging in front, your spray-starched shirt laid carefully upon my stack of skirts and sweaters that I might choose to wear this week. Why not put them in the closet, you say, until you open the closet, and see the dilemma, no room, too much, you are not surprised, as you lower your head beneath my legs, nearly immediately, yes, I wore panties, was wearing panties, and you have rolled them down my legs so deftly, now off, and your head is where I dreamed it might be, soon, now, your tongue circling my clit as you kneel in your navy briefs and lick me.

I should sleep, but now am wet, my sweat unavoidable in this room, this gown that, while elegant, does not breathe, meant obviously to please only momentarily before eventual removal, and you have pulled it now over my shoulders, my neck, your cock pressing against the briefs, which I nearly as quickly roll down your ass, and off. I could stop, revel in the luxury of skin, your honey hair at the base of your ready cock, my skin now supple, first, inviting, hot, ripe, as I see your prick bounce as I lick you there, me now kneeling as you stand, run your hands through my hair, then grasp my head, thrust into my mouth first hard, then though you thought you might hurt me, toss yourself onto the bed, pulling me atop.

I should sleep, the hours all the shorter as I look at the alarm, set, must awaken by six o’clock, and it is midnight now, past, now Monday, early, and I want to sleep, want more to fuck you, want more for you to flip me over and send me into sweet oblivion, sweet dreams, your come dripping from my throbbing cunt, my ass, and the dreams between. No, I cannot sleep, not with you in my bed, not yet.

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.

blue, thoughts on

Oh, baby. Yes. B.B. King is wailing on your hi-fi, all night long. I am kissing you, my cunt grinding into your thigh, and you are totally into it, mmm hmm. Your cock is full, hard, and you know you are going to fuck me soon enough. So you hold back a little, make me want a little, make me grind a little more into you, while you run your hands along my waist curving widely down to my hips, then stop. You pat my ass, and I am about to come when you squeeze me, you indecent slut.

It’s so good to sit with you here, here on this long, slow night, the living room still dark, your invitation to dinner still lingering in the future somewhere past this slow, slow desire, this slow, slow kiss, this slow slow groping of my right breast while your mouth trails down from my lips to my neck to my swollen nipples. Damn, yes, you are sucking hard like a baby, not like a baby, baby, you turn me on too much for that your tongue circulating, your strong hands ripping down my shirt, my skirt, wet, you.

I am feeling you now, damn, the slowness of your cock bulging from those navy briefs, your jeans, take them off, all off, let me take them off you, torture, you wanted it, and I am going to fuck you so slowly that you cannot stand my hesitation, my will always greater than yours. You would have fucked me long ago, but stop, letting it build, wildly, reason has gone, and music. Well, music is still there, too, and we are all waiting to see just how far you want to go with this.

You are enraged now, yes, I know. You have pushed me round, your hand stinging more than my ass, I won’t tell you that; you are aroused by the red imprint you left on white skin, now spread, lifted, your cock plunging quickly deep, deeper, your finger digging deep up my ass, the mere thought lewd beyond all control, your cock fighting the urge to explode quickly, but to no avail.

I find you, you somewhere deep within all this, connecting me, me somewhere beyond the realm of the nice, the explicable, the logical. I want you now, know you here, lift my hips a little higher on a down beat, as you cry out, filling me as I grab you once more. Yes, yes, give it all to me now.  Fill me up and hold me.

Blue, I want you here now, want the luxury of dark, and slow music. Want you.

new wing

I had meant to write a proper review of the new wing. It just opened, and I was eager to see the changes to the old rooms I had wandered through on my own not so terribly long ago. Back then, I loved the gardens, and the hovering guards, who were nonetheless eager to chat as I excitedly rolled back the protective velvet covers to read letters written by Napoleon himself. It felt a respite, on a grey day, I remember. And I hoped for the same as I waited for my turn to enter the new building on a cold March morning.

It was a lot of glass, I recall. You arrived first, and I managed to park, at last, then arrive on time with the tickets. The gardens were still there, yes, and as we wandered around the halls, among the crowds of art-lovers, guards–and apparently all other employees–were far more interested in protecting the artwork itself than in watching over the office space.

Yes, the new wing. It is my face upon the cold tile of the men’s room stall as you reach round my waist to unbutton my jeans and unzip them. Your cool fingers push aside the wet pink lace from my pussy, fingers plunging, pushing, before you yank down my panties, your gleaming cock magically displayed before I notice your pants open, cock quickly feeding my cunt, deep, alabaster, work of art, fuck, yeah I want it, your hot juice shooting deep inside me so quickly before footsteps distract us back into reality.

Stay, you say, wait, and I am here alone, my heart pounding as the door opens again, as I pull my panties back up, zip my jeans, wait, wait. The coast is clear, quick, now, you say, your hips pressed against me, trapping me up against the wall, kiss, as you yank down the slutty blouse I wore today. You squeeze my tits, and I feel my clit jump again, want more. Our reservation is ready in the cafe downstairs.

The pinot grigio is crisp, cool, chatter and clinking glasses in the airy room. I look down to sip the wine, look up at you, your filthy grin. I squirm in my chair, and the stream of your hot come soaks my panties, my jeans, which stiffen as they dry, and we meander more through rooms of virgins and crosses, then out into the street to coffee, to lust, to next time, undress, spread wide, fuck, slow, long, loud, soon.

thursday, perhaps

Room #504 is not so far, only upstairs. I look at the elevators, my heart racing. Room #504 is an entire world away. I stand in the lobby, waiting, watching the numbers light up. 5 4 3 2 The door opens, and you walk off, immediately take my hand and push me into a corner, fury in your hot hands. Yes, I am here. “Baise-moi,” you say. Perhaps.

I told my lover in the early Wednesday light about you, Jean-Paul. I told him, and he fucked me hard, harder, aroused he was at your interest in me, in the mere possibility that I would show up here and then return to him late tonight, my cunt tired and filled with your come.

You may wonder why I avoid sitting now. You may wonder why my panties are already this wet, why when you push me now into this corner as you have, kissing me now as you are, I loosen my coat, ravenous, have my knee bent and pressing into your pants, your ever-growing cock bulging against my thigh.

My lover bent me over his lap before I left him today, peeled down the panties I am wearing now.

You may wonder when you see the red, the welts, you may wonder if he traced his fingers deftly between my legs as he ordinarily does when he spanks me. You may wonder if he pushed his fingers into my holes, if he pushed his tongue into my sweet pussy, if, indeed, he has already fucked me.

My body aches with yet unrequited lust, you, your gallic tongue circling, inching down from ears to neck, from collarbone to shoulder, from lobby to elevator to room to my coat now here, on the floor, the bumps of my garters apparent through the sweater dress I chose for this evening. Dark green, now my nipples beneath the cashmere, your hands running from my waist across my sore ass, down to the hem of my dress, lifting, impatient. Perhaps.

No, yes. Yes, I say as I think of things to say, stop thinking, let you pull the sweater up over my head, spread me across the bed, sheets turned down now, the soft light, the lights outside, my heels dangling, your tongue now tasting my lust, fingers deep, insistent with my swollen pussy, bringing me quickly to loud cries. No, no, yes, yes, yes at last. And then you stand, remove your watch, unbutton your sleeves and throw a shirt across a chair, buckles, buttons, zippers undone, and I gaze upon a cock worthy of the tales I will tell, now near, now, oh, yes, yes fuck me.

You growl, using me, your hands rough on my breasts, you sliding into me with no stops save the limits of my own skin, if that, if you can keep going now, you do, yes. I beg for you, yes, fuck me, baise-moi. Do it now before you explode, your heavy balls relieved, my legs shaking. Only an hour again, only an hour, you hesitate no longer. The grabbing urgency overwhelms me, transforms me, and I feast upon your glistening body, here so glorious in the low light.

We talk now, yes, it is lovely here, Jean-Paul. It is lovely, and yes, I can walk with you tomorrow. I can show you the city, the lights we see below, the water and the wind. I can tell you stories, tell you of the American dreams, and the things I remember from my younger travels, the night I came home to my lover after I saw you. I can walk, my hot hand inside yours as we walk near the harbor, yes I will tell you more about my lover, what he said to me when he saw me, you dripping down my leg. I can tell you how he said you tasted, how we tasted, perhaps, in awkward words, in charming words, in strange tongues, your tongue once more finding mine.

need

My schedule is packed, it is true. I keep running, keep running. I want you.

I want you now, a moment to breathe, and I want you to meet my lust, grind into me beast-like, let me forget who I pretend to be when the shades are open, when the day is young and I awake all dewy, innocent. I am not.

You know me, rushing into semi-privacy at 5:05pm, at last at last, fire so wet, your cock about to burst, hours passing in the tension, my hair still caked with your morning come, the ben wa balls you shoved up my cunt and left there as I throbbed all day long, your fingers digging, bringing me almost home in the morning light, the growling promise of more later. I have ached with every movement today, wanting you to fuck me hard and fast, loud. I can think of only this.

You know what I know in the night, where my fingers wander, in me, in you, the black holes, the sublime.  You know how the hours run on, the days, the weeks of wanting. And now, now, yes, now your fingers satisfy, you unbutton, yes I unbutton you, your glimmering eyes, your flash of white flesh, your raw need, my violent lust.

 

omi

It is like a magic trick, he said, as I rode him, swiveled, his cock embedded deep in my cunt.

“It’s an omi,” I said, and it is indeed an intriguing movement.

My lover tonight is enjoying the benefits of my latest dance craze, an obsession that has me drilling and zilling my morning workout, veils removed as the sweat pours down my face in these efforts for perfection…

I think of my lover late in the day since I began dancing–practicing my seduction with veils, with ben wa balls, with the Arabic music blaring across my practice room, my pelvis aching with desire, my dancing suffering less and less from lack of proper attention to form as I become accustomed to the way it feels, as I gain control.

So it is magic, the scarves draped across my face, my breasts hidden from you, the music separating us as I hide and tease throughout the day. You love this chase, I know, love it when I reveal so little of my urgent desires. But you know. Yes, you know.

My lack of dance experience is irrelevant to my lover now, he thinks, as I grind down on him, clamping down as he groans and I pull slowly up, side, back.

“Oh fuck.”

Yes, that is what we are doing, but I love the slowness of it, exotic decadence of a weekday afternoon, the early evening light behind dark curtains, the music lulling me slowly around your blessed cock, my cunt sweet, wet, hot, undulating, my own desire tensely on hold as I block my hearing from the walkers out on the dirty streets below. They are walking to their cars, from jobs in some world that seems so faraway right now, going home to some world that may lack this sort of passion. Shun the thought.

“Lish, habibi, lish…” sings Natacha Atlas, and I know the song sings of whys, of wishes, of grief.

But not now, not now do I think of this lament when my hips circle and sway, delaying your climax–mine–once more. You grab me more roughly, more urgently, as I deny your release again on the up beat.

Oh.

It is darker now, the shadows like veils as the music wails to a stop, as I slow and let my hips settle with you deep inside. You pull my mouth roughly to yours as I lean over to kiss you, your throbbing cock trying to thrust into me as I simply ride you, my body still in a trance of sorts that is not nearly enough for you now, you, tightly wrapped in this web, wishing now to let loose, explode inside me.

You push me from you, pinning me on my back, my hands above my head as you kick my legs apart, as I let you. You bring me from my oasis to yours, now, my heart racing as you switch the control, then let me loose. I am yours.

Oh yes. Yes! Take me now, take me hard. My fingernails scrape your back as you push me roughly open, devouring me, my skin, my entire being. I push my legs together in mock modesty, and you push them back apart, my cunt yours, gleaming as your hands knead my breasts, as your fingers comb through my hair and pull it, your cock not hesitating as you groan and slam into me, once, then again, and again, harder, larger. I am gone now, obliterated into the bliss, my orgasms riding one another as I hear myself howling, I think. Or is it you, transformed into some beast, insatiable?

This is what I wished for always, your desire urgent and good, relentless, inescapable.

And satiable, now.

anticipation

Hmm. Hmm.

Suddenly, life explodes.

Mesmerized by circumstances, I want to fuck. Badly.

And the universe responds to this by phone call, letter, suggestion, brush of the hand…

A hot tub. A bed. A couple–or two–looking for outside assistance. Will I?

Indeed. The mere suggestion is delightful, enough to excite me on an unusually warm November afternoon, the sun low, the nights soon ready to howl in winter’s approach.

Care to join me? There is always room for just one more…

saving daylight

It has been a week of short afternoons and long nights. Delicious.

It makes me wonder why we spent all those months saving daylight.

I love the sun, crave its heat, seek its light when it is scarce. But this all comes in cycles, doesn’t it? We relish in the lingering warmth at the end of a summer day–I suppose this is why we hold onto the daylight until October is over…

But it is back to the norm, now, the standard. And it feels so exotic, this kiss of night as I walk out the door at five o’clock. I feel the sparkle in the air as the black sky surrounds me, filling my mind with possibilities.

My bed is ready for this turning inward as the season invites. I bring more into myself, too. Pillows, oils, books and toys.. Home is here, in the joyful anticipation of new adventures, the best ones, the thrilling interplay between sheets and bodies. How I have missed this, this close rebuilding of flesh and mind. I dive beneath the covers in a cold dark room, I crave this, a warm bath, my moist bare skin, the weight of the covers. You.

I draw you near, your smooth body hovering over me, you, holding my wrists firmly, teasing me, kicking the warm covers down, down, savoring the cool that makes my body tense, erect–and then the heat as you kiss your way down from my neck, down to force my legs apart and dive in head first, there. There, my legs wrapped around you, there my hands caressing your head while you inhale me, taste me, hypnotize me with your tongue.

I crave your heat, your hard cock teasing me, holding back… such restraint. Fuck me.

I ache for this right now. It is not enough.

naughty

“You are such a naughty girl.”

“Ah yes, well, what do you to naughty girls?” I laughed, and you swatted my butt as I ran up the stairs.

Two weeks is an awfully long time to think up all the naughty things I like to do with you. Two weeks for me to think of your head between my legs, your tongue flickering around my clitoris while I squirm. Two weeks to think about riding you, climbing up onto your hard cock while you lie beneath me, thrusting with my movements, but often just letting me fuck you hard while you lie helpless, your ass plugged already with that beaded toy that hits you so well. Two weeks to think of your cock ramming into my ass while I scream in utter ecstasy.

It’s enough to give a woman reason to masturbate. And masturbate I did. Oh yes.

But in all honesty, life does get in the way of all this pleasure sometimes, does it not? Sometimes we end up too damned tired at the end of the day to manage more than an email–if we are lucky–and a few fingers teasing our genitals in something perhaps more pacifying than exciting as we drift off to that much needed sleep… Well, otherwise we would have met up at some point. Otherwise we would have fucked and enjoyed that place where we come together, thrilled and absolutely alive.

And still.. exhausted still, otherwise occupied, meeting new people, whatever I am doing, I still think of your when you are not here.

“Yes, you have been naughty, haven’t you? This…”
WHACK
“is what I do…”
WHACK
“to naughty girls.” And you pushed up my skirt and let your hand loose to explore the black silk, your fingers tracing the edges, quickly discovering as your fingers plunge beneath the fabric how wet I was.

“I want your clothes off.”

And you were already unzipped–I unzipped you within seconds after you came in the door downstairs, when I was kissing you and touching you wanting you to fuck me fuck me after all this time and you were late, sir, late, and time was wasting, and you will indeed fuck me fuck me in every way. And somehow I believe you may have been undressed–maybe not–as you leaned over me, let me feel your cock rubbing me as you pinched my nipples and held me trapped between your legs on the bed. You knew I wanted you as you took my sweater off, unhooked my bra, and grabbed my hands so that I could not move, bent me over, and pushed your cock hard into me. Yes you fucked me though I was not undressed, though my panties were still on, though you still had your legs firmly planted around mine so I really could do little but to take your cock in as you pushed into me, hard, pushed into me though my ass was plugged. And yes that makes you hot. Yes. You fuck me roughly, the way I like it, dream of it. You fuck me and tell me that you have been wanting to screw me, want my friends to watch you fuck me like this, want them to see just how loud I am when I am excited.

“Louder,” you still say, as I feel your ever-hard cock thrust deeper, as you tell me how much you have wanted to fuck me, as you tell me how wet it makes me when I finally yell out from your fingers grasping my nipple hard harder far beyond what I would normally be able to tolerate, what I could stand if you did not already have me nearly in a trance of delight and pleasure.

You crawl onto the bed, now naked, now unzipping my skirt and sliding my panties off completely, rolling around so that we are both lying on our backs and joined still, looking at one another and thrusting gently, less gently until the plug pops out, and you tell me you feel it out as you thrust a little harder, losing all control and coming at last.. relaxing then as I rub your milky come into my belly and thighs.

I love your come, love the way it smells as you erupt, its creamy luxury now all that is left–at least for this moment–this moment that you lie there in some blissful zone, as you kiss me and then just collapse.

I love the quiet moments, lying near you and not speaking. I love it when you smile at me, and then push my head onto your chest as you draw circles on my skin, love to feel your smooth tight freckled skin, your shoulders, your back as you ask me to rub you and I grab the oil. You roll back over, grab my hand to show me that you are hard again.. and I touch you, gently.

You have a remarkable ability to excite me, satiate me, and still leave me wanting more.

We lie together, and my hands explore you, push between your legs, beneath your balls and around your ass. My fingers push into you, gently, as you hand me the lube so I might push deeper.. deeper still until you have had enough for now.. And we masturbate, glimpsing into that hidden space, the self that finds pleasure still when we are apart.. You grab my hand and wrap it around your shaft while you tease yourself, fuck yourself.. and your face tenses as your legs tense as your whole body tenses as you climax, shooting come again into my hands, and you smile.. and watch my hand slip now between my own legs as I drive myself closer after you do–your smile, your fingers teasing me when I beg you to push them into my pussy while I thrust against a vibrator. “Yes, right there!” And still, I am too excited now, too spent perhaps–is it possible?–from letting you push me into orgasm after orgasm when you fucked me earlier. I curse in frustration, finally stop, turn off the vibrator, then grab it again as I feel a wave of excitement take over. I come. And still I want more.

Yes, you fantasize about other men fucking me, about letting others watch us, about fucking other people with me, about so much more. You push me farther, a little beyond pleasure into pain.. and back. A little beyond the creative realm of intimacy into some expansive place.. a different sort of intimacy where the sharing becomes complete, filthy and fun, and still full of grace and joy.

Yes, naughty. But nice.