Muse

Once his gaze falls upon her, once his touch maps the limits of her form, once his lips whisper their kisses into naked feminine warmth, she is changed, transformed.

No longer purely woman, she is more.

Muse, creation, force, she is the sigh, the moan, the roaring pulse, oil on canvas, the sensual delicacy of his brushstrokes, light and shade, the camera eye, shutter click slicing through the night, the sweetest skin, the honeyed come, voluptuous pixels aching to transcend the screen, the erotic words composed in fluorescent virtuality, the desire etched into her glistening velvet, the lustful yearning written on the body with tip of devouring tongue, with the artist’s hand, with the need of man, with the slide of thick, throbbing flesh, with the seductive scratch of the writer’s nib.

The sweet little x

There was a time when you would seal your whispered confessions, the passionate words of your lust, your farewells and goodbyes with a kiss, with a cross, with a sweet little x.

But once it disappeared from sight, once that sweet little x ceased to be, I knew things had changed; I knew we would never be the same. I knew the hint of affection you cradled tentatively in your palm had been lost, had faded forever away.

Beginnings and Endings

The days, the weeks have faded away and yet the visions that rush past my eyes, the sensations that assault then course through my body take me back as if it was only yesterday.

So overwhelmed, so seized by this torrent, I can barely form an utterance with either lips or pen. And even in this rare moment when the words have chosen to grace me with their presence, I am at a loss; I am dumbstruck, unable to fix upon a point, a look, a stroke, a caress, a thrust, a soft swell, a detail, a beginning.

Where do I begin? Where do I begin?

Do I begin with that night, with the morning after, with the season and the oppressive heat that boiled mercury, blistered bitumen, melted bricks and mortar, with the heat that radiated through the day and long after the sunset, the heat that prickled my newly bathed and perfumed skin, my once fair flesh golden and gleaming as I impatiently waited for you to weave your way through the peak-hour traffic?

With your knock on my door, with the moment you crossed the threshold, with your grin, my smile, our momentary shyness, with our first kiss, deep, devouring, urgent, with the way our hungry lips and tongues immediately erased the miles that had kept us apart for an aeon, with the change in erotic tempo as I stopped to recover my sight, my reach, my breath, this gaze meeting yours, wandering tenderly over your face, these fingers sensually sliding up the curve of your neck, finding their home in your nape, my lips softly brushing the peaks of your mouth, this silken tongue tracing its shape, your hands possessing my hips, urging me into the pulsation of your thickening and hardening flesh?

With your fingers teasing the zip of my dress, the metal teeth groaning in synch with the dirty sax oozing out of the speakers, the straps somehow gliding off my shoulders of their own will and accord, with the aching slowness you edged the bodice over the pert breasts sheathed in diaphanous lace, your tips burning a trail on the ebony silk, on my shivering body, your hands drawing the fabric down, down, down over the taunt line of my belly, easing it over my rocking hips, over the filigree bound tight around me, past the lean, silky legs raised up stiletto high?

With my own hands teasing and tugging at your constricting clothing, with my naked breasts pressed into the smoothness of your chest, my lips gently suckling your nipple, your knees buckling violently in response, the lightest of kisses, the daintiest of licks finding the glistening pearl nestling in your cockhead, my body bowed in worship, in benediction, my wet mouth enveloping your glans as your hands travel the length of my spine, as your questing fingers prise apart the luscious curves at the end of my feminine line?

With the moment I break away, leaving you lonely and yearning again, walking the path to the bedroom glowing in the lamp light beyond, with the way I meet your gaze over my shoulder, with my lingering form in the doorway as I register your desiring expression, the catch of your breath, the groan from low in your throat, with my position in front of the mirrored wall as I stand waiting for you once more?

With the reflection of our naked bodies, the contrast of your scarlet shaft pressed into my creamy thigh, your arm about my waist, the gentle strength of your hand as you slip in one digit then two then more, as you finger me, as you finger my hot velvet cunt, as my own knees weaken, the wetness dripping, flowing, my sweetness cupped in your palm, the sweat on your brow, the lone bead gliding between my breasts, my head on your shoulder, my body given over, abandoned to your touch, my body intoxicated with pleasure, the first orgasm screaming up through my bones, my gasp, my moan, these lips begging, pleading to be taken, to be fucked, to have you, to have you fuck me, to have you inside me? 

With the hour, the minute, the second you finally, finally lay me down, spread me wide, cleave open the pouting lips of my cunt, your glans gleaming with the honey you will indulgently lap later that night, your shaft nudging then plunging to the hilt, to the hilt, to the clutching hilt, no warning, no ceremony only desire, desire, a desire quickly morphed into need, the need to fill me, to feel me, embracing and milking, devouring, devouring you, from the inside, from the inside, my back arching off the now sodden and rumpled cotton sheeting, these arms grasping for earth, your pounding thrusts delivering your force, your weight, your possession, your cock emerging slick and triumphant, your cock buried in so deep neither one of us can think or speak, your cock, your thrusts, my screams ringing into the summer night’s silence, your cock, your thrusts, my screams, your dominance, your passion, your command speaking with precision to my trembling submission?

Where do I begin? Is this where I begin? Do I begin with you? Or do I begin at another beginning?

Do I begin with him?

Do I begin with the other you, with the one, with the man who has haunted this woman, this desire, these pages for what feels like an age? Do I begin with the revelations that should be locked and hidden away?

Do I begin with the fact he invaded me long before you arrived, with the ache in my heart, with the longing in my flesh, with the pain inflicted by his silence and disappearance, the pain I selfishly needed you to comfort and erase?

Do I begin with his spectre, looming, lurking in the corner, the voyeur deliberately conjured to bare witness, to taste the sour bile rising up in his throat, to feel the raw desire and bitter jealousy twisting his guts in a knot as you experience and savour and take me in every way he has always wanted and more, as you slide into me with a groan, as you possess me like a beast, as the walls absorb the sound of your flesh slapping hard from behind, as your sweat pools in my back, your hands a vice on this flesh, fucking me with a passionate brutality that will surely drive him from my soul, from this room at long last?

Do I begin with my hands clasped over my mouth in fear of releasing his name, my lids shut tight, shrouding everything but the visions within me, wanting you, wanting him, wanting him to be you, each deep thrust a hope, each angry plunge an exorcism, a purging of guilt, of jealousy, of obsessive desire running oily-hot through these veins, each blinding high, each resting low, each shuddering orgasm somehow bringing me closer to you both?

Do I begin with your tenderness, the complexity of your caress, with our lovemaking deep in the dark dead of night, with the way my body opened itself to you as I thought of him, as I needed and imagined him beneath my slight form, with the way I straddled your thighs, my delicate fingers wound around his uncut cock, my cunt hovering, my hips descending, this intimate flesh engulfing your heat, taking you to the place where you rightly belong, our bodies distilled to shadows, to sensate silhouettes, my heart reduced to a beating, adoring ache, our sensual rhythm, our mutual pleasure, our sensual rhythm transporting me across the ether, across the air and the lands and the seas vast between us, our sensual rhythm finally delivering me to you and you to me? 

Do I begin with this deluge, with this confusion, with this seemingly incoherent muddle of words, with the salty tears, with the sobs now breaking as I sit here and type, as I sit here confessing it all?

Where do I begin? Where do I begin?

Where do I begin when so much of this feels like the end?

Drift

There’s been barely a moment where my thoughts haven’t drifted to you, to the thought of us soiling my crisp and pristine sheets with our passion, to the thought of our bodies pressed together under the shower’s cooling rain, my hands exploring while yours do the same, my slender fingers teasing the silken softness of your newly spent glans, registering your excitement, the rush, the beat, the pulsation, your aroused sex growing thick, hard and heavy in my palm once again, stroking your shaft slowly, slowly, slowly, my thumb circling your cockhead slick with your glisten and the drops, my delicate fingers caressing the small of your back, working their way to the sensitive spot at its base that invariably buckles your knees and reduces your voice to a growl, my kiss finding your nipples, your collarbone, your neck, your lips, my hands reaching out beyond the weighty glass doors to retrieve the luxuriant towelling, my hands blotting, sensually soaking up the gleaming beads clinging close, my lips and tongue drinking, following the path of the cloth, my lips and tongue eager to taste you, to have you aching and pounding, to have your cock insistent for the heat of my sweet little mouth, to have you come with a shudder, with a roar on my freshly washed lily-white skin.

But at this very moment, in the here and the now, all I want, all I truly crave is your naked cock buried deep, buried so deep inside me all I can do is breathe, all I can do is clutch at your shoulders, my legs around your waist like a vice, my back and my hips arching up to meet you, to take your every morsel into my glistening sex, this glistening succulence, this smooth, scarlet cunt which aches to be filled, which cries to be fucked, which aches to wrap itself around you, to bear the mark of your unique flesh.

I want it, need it, hunger for you so desperately, I'm throbbing wet merely typing the words…

In Black and White

It's there, right there, in black and white, glowing on the screening, screaming off the page.
 

It's here, right here, with the simplest of clicks, the tinniest of taps, it's here for me see.
 

It’s here, it’s there, as bright as day, as dark as this winter's night, for me, for all, for her to feel.
 

It’s there, it’s here, glaring at me, toying with me, knotting my stomach, gripping my body, crazing my mind.
 

It’s there, it’s here, your desire. Your desire.
 

But now it’s your desire, your passion, your ardour, your hard dripping fire for another, fashioned in the language you love so well, in the words that once played our own erotic game, in the poetry that was mine, in the prose you spilled for my aching flesh, in the verse that tumbled from these very lips, in the tongue now piqued by the curves, the sensuality, the femininity of this other woman.
 

It’s there, it’s here, your desire, in the deep shadows of black, in the blinding rage of white. 

It’s here, it’s there, your desire. Your desire and my jealousy.

With the Body

The words they escape me, elude me, confound me as if language itself has refused me, forbidding my entry, casting me out to the wet and the cold and the shadows, banishing me to the silent periphery, coercing this confrontation not with the mind but instead with the body, with the body, with the body, with its meat and its bones and its blood coursing, pounding, with the body, with my body, with its pulse, its rhythm, its yearnings base, primal and erotic, with this body, with this flesh, with this body I thee worship, with this flesh bare, exposed and hungering, with this flesh lusting, with this flesh needing, with this flesh riven, undone, moments from its devastation, with its flesh that weeps, that seeps, that soaks, that fills the room with my sweet, pungent femininity, with this body, with this flesh, with its desire, with its desire violent, lawless, on this night unendurable, with its desire to be opened, to be revealed, to be savoured and devoured by mouth and tongue and hands and glans thick, hard and burning, with its desire to be touched, to be embraced, to be released and then imprisoned, to be at one with a considered, languid sensuality, with its desire for man, for the power only he can bear upon me, with its desire for man, for him, for you, for you to see me, to look down on me, for you to drown in my gaze as you sink yourself, wrap yourself, find yourself in, around, about me.

Ode to Thievery

Are you worthy of a sonnet, prose or poem or quotation?

Are you worthy of the words composed for lovers near and close, afar?

Are you worthy of the sentiments fashioned from my erotic longings, from my fair body glowing, from my flesh naked in the dark?

Are you worthy of this moment, of this space, of this here pity for your turn of phrase clearly wanting, your pen bone dry, your keyboard useless, rusty?

Are you worthy of the interest, of the fame, renown, the limelight, of the beam created from my pure, white-hot contempt?

Are you worthy of this carnality, this intense, soft femininity, this sensuality overwhelming, this woman unique?

Are you worthy? Are you worthy? Are you worthy?

Dear thieving, pilfering plagiarist, I fear that you are not.

Impossibility

The words will not come. The body will not follow. There is only numbness in their place. There is only the contrary longing to exorcise this desire while clinging to it for dear, electrifying life. There is only the bittersweet craving for a man whose intensity and magnetism, whose complex eroticism excites, revives, terrifies. There is only the dull, aching recognition of an impossible possibility.

Writing Desire

Words are not enough. My words are not enough. They pale in the face of yours, in the face of you. They are small, paltry, shamefully inadequate. My mind, it can not tame them, it can not craft them; it can no longer articulate the excess, the intensity, the passion that threatens to consume, to corrupt, to craze.

All that remains, all I have left is my body. This flesh, this blood, this bundle of nerves, this collection of freckles dotted along fair skin. This body. My body. The body that writes my desire. The body that longs to speak its own language, its truth, that aches to merge its nakedness with your own, that begs for your possessing touch, that calls for your seductive kiss, that screams for your sweet invasion, that seeks to know you, know of you, about you, as it has known and written of no other.

Through the Word

We give of ourselves through the word, through the prose, on the screen, on the page, through the lips and the tongue murmured sweetly into the waiting ear.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the needed expression of the ache, through the fissures of pain and of bliss, in the bright of day, in the veil of the night.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the turn of the phrase that inflames, through the writing that arouses desires on the surface and hidden deep within.

We give of ourselves through the word, through verse as skin and bone and as flesh, longing to be sensually touched and caressed, yearning to be savagely fucked and set free.

And as we give of ourselves through the word, we give of ourselves through the body. The body, my body, his body. The bodies that give, the bodies that take, the bodies that lust and merge and devour.

The bodies that ardently follow the word.

The Others

When my own darkness descends, when I can no longer make sense of my place in the world, I find comfort in the shadows of others. In the words that speak of love and loss and passion and pain. In the words that light up the screen and ink the page. In the words that tear me apart and put me back together.

Nineteen Words

She has read his words several times over in a vain attempt to regain her breath, her composure, her sense of this time and place and the intensity suddenly spiralling wildly through her body.

Unfolding before her, they paint a vivid picture of his emerging desire and hardening flesh as well as the craving to plunder her mouth, cunt and the very essence of her desiring force.

She recognises his carnal drives, and the shadows in which they often seem to lurk, in an instant. In them she sees her own, rising up, taking over her rational mind and needy form as his cock and beautiful face and body become the centre of her own sexual imaginings. 

But there is something more in him, something that already sets him apart, something he encapsulates in a short string of simple words. These words, innocent and benign in their own right, have been placed together by him in a way that tears open her sexual soul.

The thoughts and feelings that assail his mind in the dead of night and the obscenely early hours of the morning as he strokes himself, smearing the precum dripping from his swollen head, circulate around her. Her wants, her needs, her obsessions. And the very things she hasn’t experienced but will one day grow to love, will one day be unable to live without. The very things he can give her, take from her, as master, as slave, as man, as lover.

And because no one has ever dared express a yearning to know her in such an intimate and yet primal way, to delve into the depths of her darkness and her light, she undresses in front of the screen, her naked form illuminated by the artificial glow, and begins her exploration with his words as her witness.

More words about words

They weave a very particular spell, those words of his. Quite unlike any others, they wind themselves into and through my body. Sliding, slithering, caressing, tickling. Ablaze, my body becomes pure sensation. Hungry, yearning, open. Ready. Willing.

With each passing word, each passing day, I find myself wanting. Wanting more. Wanting to be her. Wanting to be the woman who inspires his force, his passion, his reflections.

I know I am not alone. I know there are countless others communing with the page, consuming in the light, devouring in the dark, desirous of the very same.

So I sit and read and yearn and ache while feeling the words. Feeling up his words as if a body laid bare for the taking.

And when I am sated I wonder if my words will ever have that effect. On him.

I live and hope and dream.

Words about words

I read your words aloud, savouring their flavour, their texture. I roll them round my mouth feeling their rhythm and pulsation. I tickle them lightly with my tongue before greedily devouring more. I open wide to be filled with them all.

Compulsions

The pulsation of my body, the flow of my words. 

Together again they overtake me, they wake me in the dead of night, gnawing, grabbing, demanding. Begging for the page, the pen, the cursor, the screen. Begging for skin and heat and lips and hands and hardness.

Open and ready, I surrender.