lingua franca

It is the tip of your tongue, the very tip of it, circling, the tip of your delicious tongue that I crave, not against my tongue, no, not around my nipple, no, oh, though your sucking is so, so luscious. But closer, yes, closer.

The night is cool now, day warm, now, morning humid, skin slick, your ripe body next to mine, not here, no, not now. It is a dream, a language I cannot speak, this here and now, this desire not so much for interpretation as for knowing. Your tongue, oh, skin, yes, fuck me, more, the unspoken, truth, the Ding an sich.

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.


The short month has ended, the snow of winter arriving just at the end of it, melted now, spring soon, spring lingering here so close all year.

I left my bedroom for some time, feeling a great need to wander, to explore the wide wonder, in search of beauty, in search of ideas, in search of new ways and new faces, new tastes, new amid the old, in search of perspective, sunrises on empty roads, the cold, the sting, courage.

Adventure, even here, the hidden, the forbidden, the jeans unsnapped quickly, fingers slipping briefly into my heat, your cock plunging deeper to replace them, my face pressed up against cold tile as you fill me, your finger tracing my ass, more, more, my thoughts so lewd to think of the moment, stolen, the Vermeer, my lust multiplied, a kaleidoscope of possibilities.