Waking

We giggled together, rolling over, pinning each other playfully. We'd take breaks for deep, throbbing kisses. The "breaks" became near continuous, the gentle dominance play falling away. Sex was not part of the evening's agenda, but I could not help responding to those lingering kisses. Your fingers grazed the delicate skin found at the bend of elbow and wrist, breaking a gasp from my lips. You let your hands run over the skin on my torso, my hips, but not my breasts, not delving past the line of my pants. I knew the mood was exploratory. I knew the caresses weren't to lead to anything further. Your touch was beautiful torture, hands and lips lighting me on fire. I fought the rising hunger. I fought the burning. I fought the urge to push your hands between my legs. You needed sleep. So did I.

Hours later, the room dark and drowsy, I feel you move and wake a little. Eyes shut, I hear, "hmmmm," deep and low. More movement. Somehow your hands are between my legs, and I am wet for you. I writhe against you, the dormant desire aroused earlier again roaring to life. The mood no longer exploratory, instead informed by lust, you push into me, past me, rolling me under and over. Sleep fogged, the sensations rise as though they have been submerged. Each exquisite touch emerges from those liquid depths, encountering no resistance. Your eyes, there they are. Look at me. Love my pleasure pain. I'm fighting it. I'm fighting losing myself so completely here in front of you. "Come for me," you say.
Ok.
I let go, drowning. No air, no tactile senses, only you. You and those eyes.

Random

I’m attracted to corporeal sensation. I write as if I’m imagining that I can contain the tactile feeling of blood driving through my veins in each sentence; as if I could encapsulate the minute fireworks of each exquisite orgasm in these words. It will not happen. I yearn to describe, but only what cannot be accurately captured. I hate trite description: his engorged member, her heaving bosom. Never.

Let liquid language flow instead. I like to marinate in words. I choose writers accordingly. So few maintain a liquid flow I can immerse myself in.

I want my sex to be all consuming, my reading to be all consuming, but never my love. I do not want an all-consuming love. I feel that a love like that eats your life. I want someone I can share life with, not someone that swallows it for me. I hate what I’m feeling now, as much as I love it. My thoughts rarely stray from her. I despise the hours after I leave her. I ache with missing her, with fear that I will not see her again soon enough. The adjustment period owns me. Life seems a paltry thing without her ever-living fire next to me. Music does not move me, infectious smiles do not reach me, nothing pleases me without her presence.

Self-exploration

Hot hot heat today. Body temperature rising, all reason lost with the increase. Open windows provide no relief, air still. Heat throbs in me. Jeans come off, peeled from skin. Damned detestable stickiness. Cooler air embraces limbs, legs bare right up to the lace of black panties. Cross-legged on the couch in camisole and panties. Desire is intense today, combined with tension of being caught.

Fingertips trace lips, sensitized surfaces outlining each other. Teeth graze fingerprints, gliding across tongue wetted skin. Tongue tip licks up salt, savoring the flavor. Fingers trace down the skin of a delicate chin, skimming downy hairs on the sensitive neck, hand delving between pert breasts. Breasts slowly palmed, one, then the other. Unbearable electric thrill from a brush of a nipple. Slowly, slowly. Short nails pass over skin, tracing down a ticklish side, running across the bump of a hip, dipping down to the hollow at the junction of the thigh. Hand stills there, presses gently, evoking instant charged desire. Hips rise lustily to meet the downward swoop of the hand brushing scant pubic hair. Fingers spread to cup the softness found there, to follow folded curves. Hand damp, exploring. Hand wet, plunged deep. Low, heated noises: moans, sighs, whimpers, murmurs. More. Body rising, heat rising. Tension building in the legs, body shaking with it. Explosive moment of clarity. Knees weak, breath labored. Coming down. Breath slowed.

Blur

She is demanding. We sat cuddled together for much of the night. She'd get up, then would return to me. A raised eyebrow demanded I reposition to accommodate her sitting between my knees. She gives me little orders. "Come here," she says; a demand disguised with a sweet tone. When she refilled my glass, I told her she was pouring too much. "Shut up," she said, and chuckled. She overfilled anyway. She lifts my limbs when we're resting on the couch, places my hands where she wants them, grumbles when I move them away. Later, in bed, she tells me to roll over. She tells me, "lie still."
She wants to know why I like this about her. She's touchy about it, presumably because others have hated it.

Truthfully, I love the authenticity of her demanding nature. She doesn't let others stand in the way of wanting what she wants. She does not sugar coat. She lays it all bare. It is what it is, take it or leave it. I admire this. I enjoy it exponentially more because I do not let many people make demands of me. She does it properly. I fight back when what she requests runs counter to my wishes. She's not used to this either. I know I am not what she expected. She tries to be smooth. She tries to be extra polite. I told her to cut the bullshit. She laughed. Authenticity.

She's particular about her appearance. She gets hit on quite often. I love this. I like that many others see her as the gorgeous creature she is. Most woman would be jealous. So many of us are exact paper cut out replicas of limited personalities. I try so hard to blur my lines. I am so excited to find others that do too.

Story

She is boyish. Sure of herself. Magnetic. She has dark hair, and moody eyes. Except, the eyes aren't really so moody. They just look like they should be. She laughs and curses in equal measure. My kind of girl.

We're giving it a chance. There's tension between us. Tomorrow we find out if it's the right kind. I'm throwing myself out there to try new things. She said, "I have something for you to try. Try me." She laughed. Indeed, love. I will.

Yes, I'm taking a risk. The risk adds to the heightened arousal. I have high hopes. I'm seeking something in her, and it certainly isn't love. I need to be taken.

The rest of the story will follow soon...

Silence

I'm a lucky girl.

Forcing it hurts. She is not stable. Maybe what I feel for her is not stable, and she remains unchanged. Some days I hate her. Some days, her constant demanding makes irritation rise like bile in my throat. Some days, I can't escape her scent. I want to throw myself against her much like any cat might. I want her scent to swallow me, make everything better. Anything for her.

"We're leaving," she said, and leave we did. I felt like a tramp, felt so well used. She planned on using me again. I knew her game. She had dressed me for dancing; choosing the tight jeans, silver grey bondage top, tie at the sides Provocateur panties. I would not need a bra with such a biting top. Nipples were part of her play.

I balked at being led down the stairs. She bit her lip at my reluctance, but tugged me onward. Silent displeasure in the car. I did not want to. She hissed at me, "Don't appear so reluctant at the club. You do not want to embarrass me."

No, never embarrass you. Nothing to make you angry, nothing to risk displeasure. Tell me what to do, anything, I'll do anything. Just please don't be mad. Please.

Silence. Upon arrival, I play my part well. I smile winningly, I exude sexuality, I dance with abandon. My eyes track her as she stalks the floor. She's searching. Please. Not tonight, please. I'm desperate, please no. She finds one, locks eyes with me. "No," my eyes say. "Now," hers reply.

The one she found is a pretty one. Boyish, like she prefers. I play the game, dancing, whispering, cajoling. She'll be so displeased if I don't capture this one for us. The girl seems to respond, seems captivated, but I see her eyes tracking another girl over my shoulder. No, no, no. Focus on me, tomboy. I'll be whatever you want. No, I've lost her.

She is displeased. We leave. "If you'd go to the gym more often," she tells me, "if you wouldn't wear such dark eyeshadow." "If you'd smile more, if you'd dance better, if you'd flirt right, if you'd...the litany begins. I'm quietly relieved. I did not want the tomboy in our bed tonight.

Longer

A friend of mine once said that a certain rawness shows through my writing. I told this friend that I feel raw, and I am glad the rawness translates.

Not today. Today I feel raw, but it is the wrong kind. I do not feel exposed so much as abraded open with brillo pads and bleach. It wounds me further that what I am feeling now is but a 10th of what she feels. Only a 10th.

What must it feel like, to love someone as she did? I cannot imagine the depths of devotion she maintained for him. He was not only her first born child, but a first born child with major disability. Nothing was more important to her than her child. She slept little, adhering to his schedule, waking when he would wake. She loved the sunshiny days when the temperature wasn't too warm, wasn't too humid, because he was positively giddy to be outside. She dropped everything each and every time he got pneumonia, and often forgot to eat or sleep while caring for him. His life was a miracle, and she celebrated that miracle with every fiber of her being.

I can't know what it's like to love someone so much that they become a part of you. The way people use the word "love" means nothing. What she had was love transcending the meaning of the word. She had an honest unconditional devotion to this other being. No imperfection was actually a flaw, because you cannot just love pieces of a person. You must love the whole being. She loved him. He was born to the right people. I just wish that they could have kept him a little bit longer.