Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Red Couch - 2

[Continuation of The Red Couch - 1]
Image credit

You: Still standing in the center of a non-descript room.
Dark, plain night walls.
Red, plush couch still against the back wall.

You: Wearing an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt and khaki pants.
Belt snakes through loops. Barefoot.
Just standing there, looking somewhat surprised,
You rest your hands on my waist...

I look up to you.

Me: Touching the center of your well-defined chest.
Chills, down the arms.
Warm, perfect touch against your front wall.

Me: Resting hand on your cheek and hand on your cheek.
Flesh meets cool belt-buckle. Naked.
Pulling you closer, breathing somewhat synchronized,
I give you what you need...

A long kiss.

And then,
I release our embrace


belt . . .

Monday, November 13, 2006

My Flower

Artwork by Georgia O'Keeffe

She inquired. He answered.
What could I tell you about my flower?
You must describe the scent and flavor.

How shall I describe her for you?
I want to know the details.

Tell me what you'd like to hear...
I want to know how you touch yourself when you cum.

And she responds.
To find the words to fully convey the delicate intricacies of my orchid to you is no small task. The best way truly is to know the taste and scent first-hand, as the light musky perfume of my pink petals combined with the sweet essence of my ambrosia will assuredly delight your senses as well as satiate your palate.

How I satisfy myself is dependent on several factors. My mood in conjunction with time and circumstance are only a couple of determinants, as sometimes I simply want a quick, feverish release. And sometimes, when certain components merge, I need more. It's times like these that I like to charm and tease myself, prolonging my pleasure before the brink of no escape.

Since the opportunity is gratuitiously ripe and I want to charm and tease us both, I shall describe how I'm tip-toeing through the "two-lips" right now.

For this specific not-so-private escapade (as you are here with me), I'm lying across my bed, atop a plush, down comforter. Chills appear on my skin and my nipples begin to harden from the air that decreasingly circulates from the recently turned-off ceiling fan. I pull a corner of the comforter over me for warmth, watch the fan blades slow above me, and push the covering off again once the blades have stopped.
I am wearing a pair of panties. Black. Nothing more.

Sit there, watch my hands, and perhaps you will discover the details you seek. . .

My left hand is cupping my left breast, gently caressing under the curve of my small and firm bust. My thumb brushes across my exposed nipple, encircling it, gently flicking it, causing it to harden again under my warm touch. My right index finger is in my mouth, as I have an oral fixation. While fondling my left breast and slowly licking and sucking my finger, I notice the lit and shadowed design of venetian blinds across my tan legs, relayed from the sun rays shooting through the nearby window. My fingernail grazes across my tongue, picking up my saliva. The finger withdraws and lowers toward my right nipple, hovering within an inch above. I watch my chest as it rises and falls with my breath, causing my nipple to yearn for contact. I let the tip of my nipple touch my shining finger and withdraw it, again and again. The fingernails of my left hand brush down and across my abs like dancing fairies, down to my left hip bone and then claw back up to their mammary origin. I re-wet my right appendage and bathe my entire right nipple and areola with drool, gently pinching both of my nipples between index fingers and thumbs; one wet, one dry.

My fingertips vary their pressures and I dare my limits as my body begins to writhe, like a slow-moving serpent. My breathing increases. My sighs become more audible.

My hands eventually find their way across the gentle curves of my flat tummy and pull and tug on the side-strings of my bikini panties, causing friction between the satin and the lily it conceals. The fingers of both of my hands barely tuck below my satin waistband and glide along my lower abs... back-and-forth. My hands slide down and along my thighs. My right hand reaches around and smacks my ass. Twice and then thrice, with the last blow harder than the first. My right hand soothes the sting and tickles the back of my thigh, all the way down to the underside of my knee while my left hand begins it forage through my short clover, heading for my bud. The strings of my panties are slightly lowered and fingernails scrape through the narrow, dark and meticulously close-trimmed nature trail on my mound. Fingernails of my right hand tease my inner thigh, sensing heat and moisture as it nears my core while my left hand withdraws and rediscovers my nipples.

My right palm sneaks up and rests on my satin-covered crotch with my fingers stretching towards my back keyhole. Condensation has already begun to saturate the fabric, making my palm tacky, and my back arches with the feel of satin being pushed against smooth, bare skin. My middle finger finds its way to the right inner edge of my panties and slithers underneath, across a shaved sepal lip, and heads to my honey jar. My finger meets slick heat and tightness and I force it to quickly dive to its base knuckle. My left hand forces my panties aside and then returns to my nipple, tweaking it harder. As my middle finger withdraws, it brings my nectar with it, smearing it up & over the folds of my blossoming morning glory until it lands directly on my swollen rosebud, producing vocal moans. My pace starts slow and gradually quickens as my finger retraces it steps over and over and over, sometimes adding a second digit. Soon, my panties become a hindrance and I lick the juice off my middle finger before hastily pushing the satin lingerie down, letting it rest at my ankles. With a couple of bicycle twists from my feet, my ankles are bound by my panties and my knees part to rest on the comforter beneath me. My legs now form the shape of a diamond and my beautiful hibiscus is fully exposed. My fingers seem to think for themselves as they tantalize my blossom, exploring every smooth curve, every edge, every crevice. The interior walls of my pistil feel like boiling velvet. My moans turns into growls and primal vocalizations of "fuck!" and "ohhh yeah!" as my fingers remember the right spots, pressures, and speeds prefered by my glistening clitbud. My pulse races with my pace and desire. An itch begins to burn deep within me. My left hand smacks at my breasts and then rushes to scratch the itch, repeatedly plunging two fingers into my posy like a piston, while my right hand continues to furiously brush my pompon. I bite whatever flesh I can reach, and this time it happens to be the inside of my right shoulder. My flower seems to be alive ... and hungry... as my fevered strokes cause it to grip tighter onto my fingers. My ankles pull against the restraints of my panties and my toes slightly curl as the sensation of an orgasm floods me, taking over. Convulsions are born from the very core of my being and the feral wildcat is released. Spasm after spasm burgeons a fully-bloomed flower. The drops of sweaty dew on my upper lip and between my breasts do not compare to the trickle of syrup that now flows downhill from my blossom, across my anterior floret. My heart pounds in my ears, my eyes roll into the back of my head, and my face contorts in ecstasy.
Gradually, my phallic fingers slow their pace while my other hand releases my red nugget... only momentarily... while it recouperates. My left hand is drenched and glides across a too-sensitive stamen, causing an audible and quick intake of air, and spreads my sheen from pubis to anus. Instinctually knowing the short span of time to wait, my right hand returns to my rosebud as my left hand flirts with my darker pod, quickly bringing another intense explosion of convulsions from my depths, lifting my body off of the bed into a piked position.

My candy-coated fingers find their way to my lips, applying the savory sap to my mouth like marigold lipgloss, and my girlish poppy scent rises to meet my nostrils.

I beckon you closer.

I put my glossy fingers in your mouth.

My chest heaves, my body experiences aftershocks, and my raspy breathing slows as I idly stroke my purring iris.

I whisper to you, "Kiss me."

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Purple Thong

Image credit

90 minutes alone.
Driving and smiling.
With a favorite purple thong under a black mini skirt.

45 minutes with two.
Blue wedding attire, glassy eyes, and wine unopened.
Harsh lighting and a laptop.
Naked toes meet stockinged toes under another's leg.
Flirting and nervous laughter.
Buttons and zippers.
Whispered secrets and kisses.
Permissions granted. Permissions missed.
Stains on a black suit jacket.
A surprise kiss-gift relayed from another.
Watch the blue evening gown sashay away.

College days revisited on a smoky burgandy leather couch.
Kisses and touches.
An exposed nipple and a glimpse of purple.
TV squawking along with the man behind the counter.
Expressed out of the express inn.
Stroll a parking lot by lamplight.
Cheeks flushed with the night.
Cold air, cold hands.
Heated car, warm skin.
High school days revisited in a Honda.
Flesh touches flesh and windows fog.
Kisses softer than the rain.
Two lines not crossed.
A purple gift with instructions attached.
A hand kissed and fingers sucked.
Stains on black suit pants.
75 minutes with one.

90 minutes alone.
Driving and smiling.
With the radio under a full moon.

60 hours with others.
Instructions rebuked and request denied.
Opportunity missed.
A face is slapped. Twice.
Purple is not held warm and near.

A week with 3000 miles.
A game with new rules.
Actions and reactions.
Fuzzy lines & lessons.
Purple sheds ungrateful tears and consorts with dirty socks.

Countless minutes alone.
Sitting and thinking.
With a PO Box under the keymaster's initials.

Waiting for a favorite purple thong, frosted, to return to its field of juniper.

Monday, November 06, 2006

The Red Couch - 1

Image credit

You: Standing in the center of a non-descript room.
Stark, plain white walls.
Red, plush couch against the back wall.

You: Wearing a long-sleeve button-up shirt and khaki pants.
Belt snakes through loops. Barefoot.
Just standing there, looking somewhat forlorn,
You hide your hands in your pockets...

I walk up to you.

Me: Touching the center of your well-defined form.
Chills, up the spine.
Warm, perfect touch against your back wall.

Me: Resting head on your chest and cheek on your shirt.
Flesh meets cool belt-buckle. Naked.
Pulling you closer, breathing somewhat synchronized,
I give you what you need...

A long hug.

And then,
I release our embrace


shirt . . .