Ready for Him

Sexed up like he liked it, like I had learned to feel silken in. Leather boots to the thighs, velvet backless dress hugging on every curve of my full breasts, bondage belt ready for his grasp. Ready to play and not too nicely.

His painted nails scratched diagrams at whatever of my skin flashed exposed. He knew that I dripped freely, no panties to interfere with his fingers. Carefully trailing between the top of the boots and just right at the cusp of my inner thighs, his hands knew exactly just how much pressure I could take….how my tongue curled right outside my lip every time he put just enough in to make me squirm and rain more.

And when his fingers would slide out coated in me, he would slide that hand up along my back, and tickle my neck. I could not look at him directly, for that was a strong part of the game. Shift my gaze, look everywhere but at him, try my best to not squeal or gasp too loudly. Every inch of me throbbed, especially since I knew he was ready to burst….but not here. True, my outfit boasted what was on my mind, while he balanced a more temperate sexiness; our circles had come to expect that.

His control was amazing. His voice and hands and mouth, even his legs knew how to spin me, without creating much notice by others. I though, I had to squeeze tighter (which only shot the orgasms through me harder), had to kick my toes or tap on the table, which could be mistaken for impatient conversation, but oh…..if only they knew……..He was precise at which sweet spot on my neck could make me cum instantly………how he could lean into me as if brushing away a stray hair and whisper “I so want to fuck you,”…

Instead of guiding my hand to his erection, he would angle my thigh atop it….there our friends sat discussing art venues with us, just chatting on as I shyly bowed. What seemed like me leaning against him in the booth was really my dress hiked over my ass, and me achingly balanced against the pants barely containing his stiff cock.

Did they notice the slight tremble as I raised my glass to drink? The way I picked at my food because it was easier to sip than to eat, in between my shallow breathing? Could they tell that when he pulled me closer by grabbing the rings on my belt, he made sure to press the metal as hard as possible against the thin dress material?

It would be a couple of hours before he would bind me and take me every way he could, before curling into a deep slumber from having him thrust into me till we were both left raw and spent.

I would fall asleep covered in his honeydew spills, spooned against his cock for when he parted me in our sleep and we began again……

Pacified Tickling

When I wanted, I could have. I could do and plan or itch and pounce however my veins turned. He put it in my hands – I control it, I feed it. I was ready the day after he and I merged, the timeframe that seemed like a day but I believe actually lasted at least three. It has ultimately become meaningless, the exactitude applied to recording and according how the passages of seconds are spent – what date or which hour was it – was it a Casual Friday or a Fuck Me Monday? Did it impede upon the sacred weekend?

I took up food, four days and nights gorging stuff that was as palatable as the strained crap fed to babies and stuff that lingered on my tongue yet could still never surpass what I truly drooled for. My neck whimpered for companionship – Ezekiel’s neck mewed too, but it needed others – we needed others to pacify the tickling.

Wolf Waiting

The wolves were waiting, panting as I struck the matches and brought their escapes further into the room. They knew I could hold ground with them, that I represented the same dusk that their Mother, my Mother, did. Ready for the hunt tonight – initiation to prove I could go beyond Ezekiel, that this wasn’t lightheaded whimsy. She rose upon the slight invocation, bringing crackle leaved wind leading to whoever I chose – whoever would win the door prize of my dance tonight.

Deciphering the Truth

I am eating as if never before – actually tasting each and every ingredient, down to the teeniest wisp of seasoning. I can feel beyond that – to everything the animal digested before its demise- I can swirl in my mouth the soils and nutrients and toxins that the fruits and vegetables were grown in – the origins of the grains, oils, and sweets in baked items. It is an organic dream – to know the entire history of each participle in the paragraph we are at present ingesting. I know the secret shortcuts taken, the processed factory cut uniformity, and when it is advertised truthfully as the real thing.

To watch the server’s face when I turn away a dish based upon something he or she probably doesn’t even know, something that is then confirmed in private with the deceitful chef is well worth the price – and enough pleasure alone to deny a gracious request of no charge. And when the server is already in the know, yukking it up for another bloated tip, presenting a dish he or she would never touch under any circumstance, grovel, honey, suck that up ‘cause this is one person who wasn’t fooled by the dog eat dog mentality – don’t even bother trying to compete with me.

Eagle Entrees

There is a school of thought that labels some people “ducks” – waddling through life, oblivious to most reasoning, not difficult to manipulate for greedy gain. But the truth is most of the so-called “drivers” aka “eagles” are still pussies, only pussies hiding it better.

They are the bigger prizes, the ones with the stiff backs and all of the answers, shuffling amid technological clutter and textbook suggestions for higher intelligence. Put them on the spot and challenge their skills, and they’ll quake stuttering excuses. They’re good to go when someone is so obviously inferior, but they’re still a carnivore’s entrée – more fat to the muscle. Almost everyone is steak tartare disguised as filet mignon, a garnish away from cubed and diced for devouring.

Torrid

It must be over one hundred degrees in here. We are oil slicks, the floor a swallowing grill. I have coated him in us, my neck weeping once more, happy to find a twin, the still burning candle a single spurting vein. All outside sounds momentarily die – shut out by this suction cup flight I have boarded.

Every breath brought awake by the torrid humidity……his mouth is on my shoulder….surrendering…making the offering equal…..his hands now steadying my waist, gently raising me for my head to extend further onto him. I’m in his mouth, putting him inside, returning what I felt, sharing the ride.

We are inside one another, our souls whipping the flames that had kept us at unrest.

I Will Protect You

He pulls us down to kneeling stances since I am too short. His cock finds a resting place under his pants, pushing against my upper thigh. I drip everywhere, raging…raring to have him…..Ezekiel opens and it is worth the years not knowing he awaited; worth the entire road of shit suffered from this life’s birth.

I could taste hundreds, millions, and never imbibe this. Wouldn’t want it from any other. The Earth before it rolled from its larval shell…..the rivers in the meadowbrook orchid planes, where nightshade blooms fertilized by vein sprays…..the stags trampling obstacle course boundaries, bent on returning to endless oceans……He curled beneath me, and let my body drive….

There are dragons and daggers and ice picks and craters where the Moon napped and sucked on trepidation. A place where the Sun thawed each morning compliant to the pact of dripping blood spots. He is not absent of fear – the banshee roils…the fear of losing me this time round…

It is the only blight in his cunning attack upon the mundane. He does not want to sleep alone in the rain again.