After Dark Tales

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 04:59:00 +0000

Deliver Me
(October 6, 2011) Two 78-word short stories based on provocative picture of woman in courtyard. (Includes guest-story)

I Like 'em
(August 28, 2011) Tribute Poem for Breast Cancer Awareness

Pain descends on dark demons' wings
(August 24, 2011) - The seduction of Pain (part of the 31 Days of Poetry)

Stopping by her on a hungry evening
(August 20, 2011) poem about spying an irresistible woman (part of the 31 Days of Poetry)

Wave the Red Flag
(August 16, 2011) the alluring danger of new red lacy panties

Ignoramasaurus
(August 5, 2011) A man learns he doesn't know as much as he thought about women... (part of the 31 Days of Poetry)

Soon Come the Rain
(July 2, 2011) A woman remembers the storm, and prays for more rain (Poem)

Faded Jeans
(June 25, 2011) A man reminisces about the first time he touched his wife's favorite jeans...

Blue Faerie Story
(June 21, 2011) Guest-writer Nezemnaya describes an incredible dream

Morning Rumble
(April 18, 2011) An unexpected start to the morning....

I don't mind your Darkness
(August 21, 2010) Poem: an appreciation of girls who aren't so good....

Shower
(July 27, 2010) There's more than one way to get wet in a shower....

The Affair of the Pudding and the Shirt
(July 26, 2010) All's fair in Love and Pudding....

After
(July 8, 2010) The mind of a woman after intimacy might be even more interesting than during....

Colors of War
(June 30, 2010) A woman waits for her husband to return from the battlefield

Redress
(May 10, 2010) A dramatic encounter during the 5 Kingdoms War...

Half-Remembered Dream
(March 28, 2010) Dream about a late-night visitor come in through the bedroom window.

Her Elegance is Back
(February 14, 2010) Poem about an underrated part of the Female body

Strain of Passion
(January 26, 2010) Short story - the bed as a battlefield

The Season of my Madness

(November 2, 2009) After Dark Miniature - Short poem meant for Halloween After Dark.

Silken Tendrils of Smoke
(October 24, 2009) After Dark Miniature - Short poem about trying to pull Thoughts of Her together

More Than Halfway There
(March 18, 2009) After Dark Miniature - Short poem about the Anticipation that comes Before.

In The Night
(June 12, 2008) Those thoughts that run through your head in the dead of night...

Eyes of Ice
(February 14, 2008) Guest Post by (Anonymous) An encounter in a dark-lit pub takes a sudden turn.

Simon Sez
(July 1, 2007) Story set on the little-known holiday of Half-Year's Eve

Jacyndra
(June 26, 2007) Guest Post by Carnivus - Story of love and danger in a traveling Carnival.

The Storm
(May 1, 2007) Guest Post (Anonymous) She runs out after a heated argument...into the Storm.

Niagra
(March 29, 2007) A couple on their 7th Annivesary

Old Lang Syne
(January 1, 2007) On a car ride to a New Year's Eve Party

Christmas Presence
(December 25, 2006) Story based on the idea, "I'll be home for Christmas."

They Buried Her There
(November 1, 2006) After Dark Miniature - For Wordsmith; poem based on a picture.

Force of Nature
(October 20, 2006) Guest Post by Sea Hag. A late-night knock on the door.

Always Yes
(August 15, 2006) Guest Post by Sea Hag. A woman on a journey home.

Unmade
(July 26, 2006) The first of Hyperion's attempts to write a short story based on a picture.

Just like That
(March 14, 2006) Originally run on Hyperion-X, the first After Dark story involves a movie set, as the director seeks inspiration.

[Several stories that originally appeared on After Dark have been moved over to Hyperion's other fiction site Literary Hype.]

'ere I slip.....

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 03:16:00 +0000

78 Word Story Challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 21:58:00 +0000

I found out that Esquire magazine was running a 78-word Short Story Contest, and decided to enter. 78 words (exactly!) may not sound like much, but in some ways it's harder to write a story that length than 1000 or 2000 words, so I needed practice. I used one of my favorite motifs - writing a story based on a picture - and another writer who calls herself Lisa Bradley (her real name may or may not be J.K. Rowling) agreed to try it out too, for something different, and to give me someone to complain to when my efforts crashed and burned. (I didn't count on hers being good and showing me up, but you can't have everything.)

Miss Bradley is a former World Champion in the 100m, 200m and 500m Burlap Sack Races. In 1997, she discovered a rare species of ceramic Frog. In 2002 Lisa was a contestant on the popular Australian animal-impressions game show "What a Croc!" (She won first prize for her disturbingly accurate impression of a drop-bear devouring a family of wombats.) Miss Bradley currently lives in Western Australia on a vegemite farm with her family, two attack-weasels and a pygmy pachyderm named Rumple. She has her own website, Lisa Bradley Erotica, where she writes sensual stories that are, "just dirty enough so my mum won't read it, but not so filthy that my dad or brothers will."

Miss Bradley's 78-word story of the picture is first, followed by Hyperion's.

Waiting

by Lisa Bradley

Tied, bound, she awaits his touch. Panting breaths, straining breasts, her body aches. The need to beg him overwhelms her. She knows this is all part of the game. Later…Much later, he’ll reward her patience and take her, hardness thrusting into soft warmth to satiate the hunger. Her thighs will clench around him, her body shuddering with relief. Later still, there will be tenderness; roaming lips, whispered words, stroking hands. For now though, it’s all about the anticipation.

Deliver Me

by Hyperion

Lord of Light, hear my plea: deliver me in my hour of greatest need, from Darkness, who soon this way comes. My body offered in living sacrifice: breasts, his to suckle; skin, his to scratch and bite; my unflowered garden his to sow his seed, but it will never be enough to slake him. He will ravage me to ecstasy and death, then take the others. Deliver me, Lord of Light, the strength needed to satisfy the Darkness.

I Like 'em (Tribute Poem for Breast Cancer Awareness

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 04:01:00 +0000

[Day 28 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

When I was first asked by the good people of RSVP Erotica to write a poem to fight Beast Cancer I was admittedly confused. This was much like when I shaved my hair, which at the time was all the way down my back - and I was asked to donate the hair to fight cancer. How could my hair fight cancer? I wondered, but hey, if it's for Science....Similarly, if my writing a poem will defeat Breast Cancer....I'm on it.

I tried for a few days to write this elegant poem that conveyed all my deeply held feelings about breasts (of which there are many), but I couldn't get the right feel for the situation. I kept pinching and pulling my words, tweaking them, massaging them, sometimes chewing on them in vain hopes of getting it just right. It was so hard! I got those words to stand up at attention, like little top hats, but no matter how much I molded, I couldn't get it the way I wanted.

In a text conversation with my friend Jacquelin I jokingly dashed off a few lines, and she wrote back, "This is good! You should use this!." Yeah, I countered, but it's not epic. It's not the Peer Gynt of Pecs I was hoping for. "It's just like you say in the poem," Jacquelin argued. "When it comes to boobies, lots of different types will work just fine." Yeah, I guess she's right. So, without further ado, I present my first (and hopefully not last) poem to fight Breast Cancer. I'm not sure if you're supposed to just slather this poem directly on them or what....but I'm sure it can't hurt. -Hyperion

I Like 'em

I like 'em big, I like 'em bouncy,
I like 'em small (around six-ouncy).
I like 'em firm, I like 'em floppy,
I like 'em neat, I like 'em sloppy.
I like 'em peach-pink, I like 'em dark-cola,
I like 'em covered with areolae.
I like 'em pushed up, or swinging easy,
I like 'em curved sharp, or big as Weezy.
I like 'em tear-shaped, or nicely rounded,
I like 'em delicate, or when they're pounded.
I like 'em on virgins, I like 'em on whores,
I like every pair, but mostly yours!

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Pain descends on demons' dark wings

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 00:26:00 +0000

[Day 24 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Pain descends on demons' dark wings,
soft and silent save for a faint ripple in the air.

It alights on the shoulders with an embrace;
enveloping the body like a warm winter cloak.

There is no attempt to shrug it off; this is the
touch of an old lover, and they greet one another

with the familiar intimacy that only those who have
shared union can know. The ritual of seduction,

seemingly grotesque, is actually a comfort; a moment
of calm and clarity before the night that is to come.

This is not a coupling the quarry would choose,
and in a few hours there will be impassioned imprecations

and beseeching bargaining for the cessation of ravishment,
all to no avail. Pain takes what it wants, when it wants,

as much as it wants, and there is no safe word that
beats back the shadows' sting. This is their world:

there is no reality but the two of them, together,
and the gasping hunger that must be satisfied.

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Stopping by Her on a Hungry Evening

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 03:05:00 +0000

[Day 20 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Seeing you across the square
Cannot help but stop and stare
Heart begins to skip a beat
Electric current in the air

Appearing good enough to eat
Delectable and tartly sweet
You can feel my growing need
Flushing red and rising heat

Reaching you with desperate speed
Paying consequence no heed
You will be my greatest sin
On your body I will feed

You are ready to begin
Liquid fire from within
Taste the night upon your skin
Taste the night upon your skin

See the full 2011 Edition of the 31 Days of Poetry

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Wave the Red Flag

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 01:29:00 +0000

"Wanna see my new red lacy panties?"

These are words to draw any man's ardent attention away from even the most important of gridiron clashes (with Playoff AND Fantasy implications in the balance), and his head snaps over like a duck hook from a 3-Iron. Pavlov would be proud.

She's wearing pajamas, red with little designs on them, the fourth different pair he's seen in the four nights since they arrived at the hotel. He hasn't worn pajamas since he doesn't know when, unless you count Return of the Jedi Ewok Underoos, and no reason that you should.

She looks at him intently, waiting for an answer; his wrenched-away gaze and near pant apparently not enough.

He opens his mouth, about to say, "Yes! Yes, of course!" but he hesitates. Maybe it's a trap. They know each other well, but then again they don't, and this first time in such close proximity is new territory, and he doesn't want to screw it up.

"I do like to keep up with the latest high fashion." He offers, aware it's a lame reply, but also feeling that it's a safe answer in case he is being tested.

She flashes that special sparkly smile, and he knows he passed.

Later, much later, both pleasantly sore and lethargic, he would mock-accuse her of insatiability.

"I never!" she exclaims. "You threw yourself at me!"

"Yeah, maybe....but that was AFTER you asked me if I wanted to see your new red lacy panties; not packed away in your suitcase, but beneath your pajamas, on your very own not-unpleasant body! Talk about a red flag to a bull...."

She giggles, busted, without shame. "I knew that's all it would take."

***

Lying flat on her back, she thrusts up almost comically so she can tug her pajama bottoms down off her hips without getting out of bed. The garment - as advertised: new, lacy, red. The front features what looks like frilly bows and ribbons, fancy and mysterious, like a woman's corset in a high-class brothel smack dab in the middle of the Old West.

The panties look so special that he is intimidated at first, afraid he might cause damage and thus raise her ire. He's been known to rip the fabric right through the heart of the triangle to get to what he wants, and there's never been any objection (she even joked about bringing many extra pairs just in case), but instinct tells him this time would be an exception.

He sees her watching him, waiting, and this is where he has his epiphany, his flash of realization of what she wanted all along.

She wants his hands on her body. She wants to lie there helpless beneath his gaze, his touch, his weight. She wants to surrender control and not be responsible for the things he makes her do, and the shuddering spasms he brings her to.

She wants all that and more, but custom, society, upbringing, biology - who knows? - prevents her from asking. A few short minutes from now, when he has thumbed her clit to throbbing and suckled both nipples hard, he'll be able to make her beg, so desperate will she be to have him inside her. But right now she is shy, and cannot ask for - let alone demand - what she craves. What she needs. So she offers to let him see her new red lacy panties, and she waits for the bull to charge.

He intertwines his fingers with the bows and ties that decorate the front of her new red lacy panties. The heavy pressure of his hand against her soft mound sets her whimpering. Her legs and hips begin involuntary movements that won't completely abate until much later, when her fifth climax is so overwhelming as to be painful, and she has to beg him to stop, even though she wants nothing more than for him to take her into oblivion.

He discovers the lace ties are strengthened with elastic, and he uses them like rubber bands to snap swollen flesh on the other side of the thin barrier.

She tries to shuck her new red lacy panties the same way she did her pajama bottoms, but in vain. He puts a hand on her waist almost contemptuously, easily pinning her in place. He gives her a look, as if to say, You're going to make such a big deal about these panties, you can just keep them on for awhile.

She almost screams her frustration. He lowers his hand from waist to lace and begins working her with his fingers - still blocked by the panties: an exquisite torture.

To forestall further protest he lowers his body down, overlapping her. Every time she opens her mouth to complain he kisses her. She vents her fury by trying to bite his lips, his tongue, anywhere she can get her teeth. He re-doubles the pressure of his fingers and she abandons all efforts to maim him, concentrating on gasping for breath.

It is not long before he shoves the crotch of her panties to the side, but he still won't let her shed the red prison. This means a constricting tighter fit as he thrusts a powerful finger inside her slowly, first in and out, and then rotating around and around inside.

It is here when his thumb makes itself useful, slipping back a small hood and gently rubbing figure-eights on the sensitive spot over and over and over again.

Her first wave crests, but he doesn't let up, adding a second finger inside her while lowering his mouth to her breast. She cries out repeatedly, almost out of control, and he watches her face keenly, eager to drink in the sight of her at this very moment, when she is at her most vulnerable, raw and real.

He'll get his in awhile (yes, her panties do eventually come off, as does, later, his belt), but right now the only thing he cares about is bringing her to the edge, knowing that it is he who has done it. He feels pride that he can play her body like a fiddle, but right on top of that he feels humbled, and grateful, that she would allow herself to be so open with him, to show him a piece of her soul.

He has mastery over her body, and dominates her flesh for her pleasure, which in turn pleases him. But it is She who willingly gives up control. It is She who allows herself to fall helplessly into forever.

She is the one with true power.

Ignoramasaurus

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 08:44:00 +0000

[Note: this story grew out of an attempt to write a poem for my 31 Days of Poetry. One minute it was a poem, the next minute she's fixing her hair and straightening her clothes. Not sure how that happened! The story contains more graphic and "rough" language than I've used previously, but I think contextually it will make sense. Enjoy!]

"Quickly!" She said, turning sharply on her leather-strap stiletto heels without looking to see if I followed, and click-clacking across the marble floor.

Did I follow? What am I, an ignoramasaurus? 'Course I followed. If you'd seen that broad, you'd follow too.

She moved real quick, but I don't know how that dame did it, wearin' a buttoned-up dark suit with a skin-tight skirt to her knees that hugged her curves like a jockey riding the rail around the quarter-pole at Aqueduct. Her gams were sweet; she had these old-fashioned stockings like you see in Burlesque with the black seam running up the back of 'em. The seam on the left leg was crooked, which I remember because I was starin' at her gams, trying to burn the image into my memory.

Her hips quit rumbling in that skirt and it took me a second to realize the dame had stopped. She was looking back at me, and I swear on my St. Anthony medal her eyes were violet. I know about the different shades of colors because I had to help my sister once on a project for her beauty college. It was about nail polish, and I don't know why Jeanie bothered, the girl has no artistic sense.

But that's how I learned about violet, and this chick has violet eyes. Maybe their contacts, or something. Or maybe it was the weird light in the rotunda, at night and all, and no light 'cept coming in from windows up by the arched ceiling.

Her hair is all full and wavy, like some girl in a shampoo commercial. It's dark red, I think, or maybe not; I don't know, the shadows have me jumpy.

The doll puts her finger up to big, soft full lips - telling me to keep quiet, as if I didn't know that.

Madon, but I wanna kiss those lips.

Bitch would probably shoot me if I tried.

She could. I know she has a gun, though the devil knows where she could be hiding it in that outfit.

She leans over to whisper in my ear, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep balance. One of her finger-nails (French tips; I swear I learned more from that project than my sister ever did) scratches my neck. It hurts. I almost yell out. I wish she'd do it again.

Her mouth is so close to my ear that I can feel the heat of her breath and the faint vibration in her throat. Her shampoo commercial hair falls on my shoulder and brushes my neck. It doesn't hurt like the nail, but makes me want to shout even more. I wanna turn and kiss this broad, bite those soft full lips, so much that my balls are achin'.

But I don't.

The job. Gotta focus on the job.

Also, the bitch scares me a little.

When she finally gives me the message it ain't what I thought it would be at all. She has to lean in - even in those stiletto heels I'm six inches taller - and her leanin' causes her chest to push up against mine.

I feel the full pressure of her tits - nice and firm, but soft and yielding, too. They're bigger than I thought from lookin' at her - she must have 'em spring-loaded in that jacket and blouse.

She says to me, "Get down on your knees."

Wait, WHAT? Crazy dame's supposed to tell me what direction the Senator will come from and how many body guards; I gotta know the lay of the land so I can do my thing. I'm so confused that I think maybe we have to hide from spotters or something, but then why is she making no move to get down?

She says it again, she hisses it: "Down on your knees!" and she bites fucking my earlobe. Hard!

I don't care who the bitch works for, my instinct is to give her the back of my hand, and then maybe the front. Nobody does that to me!

Instead, I find myself sinking down to the floor. What the fuck am I doing? I don't go down on pussy: pussy goes down on me!

But I'm kneeling in front of her, and those gorgeous legs are sticking out of that tight skirt, and then I smell her. Oh, God! the bitch is wet!

Without even really thinking about it, I push the skirt up over her hips. The skirt is tight and her ass is like a thoroughbred - muscles and movement, beautiful lines - it keeps the skirt bunched up around her waist.

Her stockings are attached to a black garter belt over-top of black panties that even in the gloom I can see - let alone smell - are wet.

I can't help myself. I lean forward, and at the same time grab two handfuls of ass and pull her to me. And then my tongue is pressed hard and flat against her panties, right in the crotch on the wet spot, against those big sweet lips, which I can feel quivering on the other side the thin black lace.

I just hold my tongue there. I wasn't kidding before. In my world, Men don't put the pink taco in their mouth. It's just not done. I seen it on the pornos, but it's like watching some movie about a contract-killer - it don't mean that you suddenly know where to make the right cuts to get a body stuffed in a suitcase.

Dame laces her fingers in my hair and pulls tight. Message is clear: Quit fuckin' around and get to work! I know this because it's the same move I made many a time when some moll wanted to screw around and play lollipop when I ordered a vacuum cleaner.

I guess I'm supposed to start licking. My tongue starts lapping against that same spot on her crotch; lapping like a dog. Great. I'm reduced to whore. If she calls me her bitch I swear I'll cut her open from lips to lips and I don't care if it means open warfare among the clans.

Ah, who the fuck am I kidding? She could bend me over her knee, spank my ass red and make me call her Mommy and I'd do it if it meant I could keep licking this pussy. Madon, what has happened to me?

And more importantly, where has this been all my life?

I start to suck on the panties, like you would a cold rag you put in your mouth to stop the swelling on a busted lip. Trying to get all that nectar. It pushes the panties a little bit to the side and my nose bumps against skin. Swollen lips. I'm in heaven. I try to do it again, but the damn garter belt is in the way.

The broad hasn't made a move to take the garters off. I guess if you may have to run at a moment's notice you don't want your skivvies floppin' around your ankles.

I gotta get in there, though, or I'm gonna fucking scream, and I know that would probably get us both killed. More importantly, I'd have to stop licking!

My switch blade!

I fish it out of my pocket and flick it open, the small click heavy in the silence. I don't bother asking for approval - can't see this dame going for a knife near the ol' schliz. I yank the crotch of the panties as far from her box as I can for safety (I'm a gentleman that way), then one quick little cut and the panties are open.

Victory is mine! Pussy so fine! (Okay, don't tell anyone I said that, or I'll kill you, your family, and people in your neighborhood with the same color house. I cannot let word get out that Pussy sublime is making me rhyme. Fuck! I did it again!)

Whether she fully comprehends what just happened or not, the bitch catches on to the ramifications quick, and she pulls my mouth cunt-ward. Without even meaning to my tongue slips inside her and....

Fuck, Yeah, Baby! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!

I thrust my tongue in and out of that sweet hole. I press my tongue against those inner walls (so THAT'S what Prince was yammerin' about!), and I lap up every bit of juice that I can. It runs down my chin and onto the marble floor. I swear to Christ - you can call me a cooze-fag if you want, but if she wasn't looking I would lick the floor clean. That's how bad I want it.

Her knees and hips buckle and thrust at the same time, which has the effect of moving my mouth up slightly on her body. I'm right at the top of her pussy, and I feel this tiny little soft pea-shaped thing in my mouth.

This has gotta be the clit. I'd heard about it once; those nags on that Sex in the City were talking about it, and I know what you're thinking, but you can go fuck yourself. I would never watch that shit on my own. My bitch at the time insisted I let her watch it, or she'd pout and whine. You do what you gotta do.

The lady likes it. She starts bucking her hips as soon as her clit is in my mouth, as if I was ridin' her like a bull and she was trying to toss me off her back. I suck on that clit, but gently - I remember the horse-faced one on the show saying the clit is all sensitive, and I figure chicks like that shit.

After that goes well for awhile, I hold her clit lightly in my teeth and flick my tongue back and forth against it in rapid succession.

The woman just loses it. She goes into full-on thrash mode, like Julius Caesar at an XTC Rave-level thrash. ('Cuz see, Caesar had epilepsy, and seeing flashing strobe lights can make an epileptic have a seizure, and raves always have.....ah forget it. You don't care about my clever analogy. You only care about the chick having the orgasm. Can't say as I blame you.)

Babydoll is coming and coming and coming and coming. Juice is going everywhere. My face and neck are so sticky I feel like when Winnie the Pooh finally got to that honey pot. (I an't blaming my knowledge of Pooh on some dumb ho; I loved that bouncy tiger since I first saw him as a kid. Tigger for Life!)

I gotta admit it: I loved every second of eating this angel's honey. I swear it was so hot I almost came myself. I'd made girls come before - or at least, they said I did - but it was nothing like that.

Her legs are soaked. Nylons can take a lot of abuse, but damn, they are messed up, man. Helpfully, I pull a (mostly clean) handkerchief out of my pocket and try to wipe up as much juice as I can off her legs and inner thighs. It takes every last fucking ounce of energy I have not to suck on that handkerchief like I did her panties.

She pushes her skirt back down over her hips - I have to stifle a whimper - and other than her scent still pounding my nostrils and a slight flush on her neck she looks completely composed. She even fixed her hair in just a few seconds, and it had gotten all thrashed when she was in thrall.

I stand up, none too steady on my legs, unsure what to do. She's all business again.

"He'll come through the rotunda from the East corridor. He should have three guards with him, in front and back and at his side - and he may or may not have an aide with him."

She narrowed her eyes and fixed me with a stare, her fierce gaze driving home her point., "The guards are fair targets, part of the business, but the aide is a civilian and it would look bad if she was collateral damage."

I didn't say anything back. I just stood there, staring into those violet eyes, and thinking about everything I was going to do the next time she let me go down there.

She snapped me out of my reverie by grabbing my chin in her hand and digging her nails in painfully.

"Are you listening to me, you fucking cunt licker? We're paying you good money, so you better not fuck this up!" Do you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Soon Come the Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 01:21:00 +0000

She slides across the scent-soaked sheets, satisfied and unashamed.

Her skin still amps with current, the air still thick with musk and spark and luxuriating lust.
That shared desire is like an intermittent thunder-storm;
there may not be rain right now,
but the ground is wet, the air hums heavy with moisture;
no doubt the rains will come again.

Oh yes, they will come again.

She feels every pore of her tingling skin,
from the small hidden bite-mark behind her left ear,
trailing all the way down her smooth supple back,
around sensual curves to still-shaking legs.
Her calves are just beginning to sweetly ache.
Her inner thighs feel raw and abraded.
It is like he says when limping through the door after a
Saturday afternoon of basketball in the park:
"Yeah, I'm sore....but I earned it."

Her fingers lightly scroll over her hips; her tummy shivers at touch-memory.
She can trace every movement of his hands on her body like lines on a map.
She can still feel every flick of his tongue as if etched in stone.
"Soft stone," he likes to call her;
so seemingly hard - a lifetime earned - yet so pleasingly soft underneath it all.

With garments shed wantonly on his floor,
with her folded so-willingly into his arms and fallen into his bed,
she was as softly curved and silky smooth as he could wish for - and more.

"Honeyed heat," he murmured after sliding his body against her
all the way up to her mouth so she too could
taste her essence still dripping from his lips.
Her desire inflamed her, and she attacked him with lips and teeth and nails.
His desire overwhelmed her, and she soon succumbed.

"mmmmmm....." She was melting at the replay in her mind.
She felt as if she could dissolve into these very sheets,
silent scribe to their carnality, stained with their
entwined Testament that was not her, not him, but uniquely "us."

She breathed deep, suckled-sore breasts heaving,
wanting to capture the moment, the memory, the magic they had shared.
She knew he might tease her if he returned to find her
in such a state of stretchful bliss, but she didn't care.

Right now she would forgive him anything, as long as the rains came again.

Faded Jeans

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 03:11:00 +0000

I was so nervous meeting your parents for the first time. I had not even known you that long then, and here I was trundling off to see Mom and Dad. My first impression was....they seemed nice. Ah, who am I kidding? All I could think about was, "Did they like me? Did I come on too strong. Why did I tell that joke?"

Then we were down in your parents' basement, alone, while they were cooking up a big meal, for all we'd told them we just ate. (Some things you can't fight, so why try.) You were in those faded jeans of yours that you loved so much. I'd only been in the same room as you half a dozen times at that point, but already I knew those jeans well.

Something was different. It took me a minute to figure out what it was, surreptitiously sneaking glances, so you wouldn't think I was just blatantly checking you out. I was so worried I was going to blow my shot with you, and I didn't want to do ANYTHING to make you think I was some sex fiend. (If I'd known then what I know now....)

You were wearing panties before. They were white with color splashes on them. I saw the smallest peek when you got out of the car. (Okay, maybe not so small a peek.)

But now I think.......There. There is was. I'm sure of it. I'm sure of it, and I am so surprised, I blurt it out without thinking. "You're not wearing any panties!"

This is not an easy thing to discover with jeans. You have to catch the angle just right. A bend here. A flex there. Curves, so tightly hugged by denim, that they reveal....what was it Brooke Shields used to say? Nothing gets between you and your jeans.

As soon as I say it I blush, sure that you've discovered me spying on you. Why am I blushing, woman? You're the one walking around half-dressed. But the fact is, now that I know you're not wearing underwear, it's all I can think about.

Even before I met you in person, I spent a great deal of time thinking about your underwear. What would it be like? What color? What cut? What material? Simple white cotton panties? I could go for that. Bikini cut, high on your thighs, or maybe that one that looks like you're wearing a big ribbon, waiting to be untied.

That part I imagined in great detail. How could I get them off? Would you pull them down shyly, me staring unabashedly, drinking in every new inch of glorious skin? Would you ask me to undress you, and smile in amusement as my trembling hands moved to your waist, fumbling with the elastic to tug them down over your hips.

In my more exciting moments, I contemplated just ripping them off. How would you react to that? Would I have the courage to find out? And maybe you wouldn't take them off at all, but would ask me to caress you and kiss you and other things while you were still wearing them. That was hot. (And don't even get me started on your bra.)

Yes, with the amount of time I spent thinking about that small stretch of fabric I probably could have cured some horrible disease, or possibly learned to fly. Buy the idea that you simply were not wearing panties; that had never occurred to me. Now I didn't know what to do.

Was this an invitation? Maybe you were just overly-warm. They chafed, or, snapped, or....the mind reeled, trying to come up with a plausible explanation that had nothing to do with me. Why would a woman not wear panties under the heavy fabric of jeans? Maybe there had been a "womanly" issue. That thought caused pure panic.

Back to my outburst: you're smiling, and it's a gooooood smile. Your eyes sparkle. I know that sounds like a line, babe, but they do! They simply sparkle sometimes, when you have a hint of play in them. When you are anticipating. This is the second time I've seen them sparkle.

The first was at that hole-in-the-wall pizzeria after we got soaking wet at your friend's charity hay ride. That was a crazy night. We were sitting there eating the best pizza in the world on red and white checkered tablecloth, and you started talking about your first crush. You eyes got a faraway look in them, and your head tilted slightly to the side. And the sparkle. And I was suddenly glad Joe Farmar lived a thousand miles away. And I wanted to see that sparkle, and have it be for me.

That's what you do when I mention your lack of undergarment. Your smile, and your eyes sparkle. Do you know you do that? Maybe it's best you don't learn to control it. You could take over nations with those eyes.

More to the point: when you smile and when your eyes sparkle, I am filled with hope. What kind of hope, I don't know. Certainly not Jesus Jones kind of hope ("Right Here, Right Now"), but hope nonetheless. You're not mad. In fact, you're pleased I noticed. Please let this be one of the few times I am actually brave!

I point my figer at you, and my face is deadly serious. I turn that finger and curl it, a short little motion that everybody recognizes. Your smile is stil there, but fading rapidly. What the hell, dude? Your face says. If I played this wrong I'm going to get one of your Gloria Steinem speeches, but if I abandon my plan now, I've lost for sure. Nothing to do but continue.

I keep my face deadly serious, and keep beckoning with my pointer. Almost against your will (I think) you get up and walk across the basement floor to where I am. I keep my face serious, angry even, until you get right up next to me. Then I break into the most insolent grin I know how to give and say, "Bet you didn't think I could make you come with one finger."

It's a line. It's a cheesy line. It's the world's cheesiest line, and it makes use of the thing you hate that I do: puns. But I know you hate puns, and I did it anyway. And I sold it, babe! You gotta give me that. I sold that line for all it's worth. You have to be a little bit impressed.

And you are panty-free.

It's got to mean something, right?

You try to look mad, but you can't and break into a grudging smile. I take the opportunity to pull you down next to me on that weird bench your parents have down there. You land a little harder than if you'd sat on your own, and I take advantage of your momentary startlement to lean over and kiss you. This is the second time I've kissed you, but the fourth time we've kissed; the other times were yours. This kiss isn't any deeper than the others, but it's different. There is something more in the air this time. Our lips linger, wanting to seek each other out again, but afraid to. Our faces are very close together, and I take advantage of our proximity to affect a whisper, like we are spies.

"Why aren't you wearing any panties?" I ask. A little bit of a dangerous question, but you smile again, and even in the half-light from those little windows up at the top of the wall, I can see the sparkle. You don't answer, so I take liberties, pretty sure it will work. I rub your leg on your thigh, way up high where the underwear would be. (At least I think that's where it would be. I am so clueless when it comes to girls. I have this thought, "What if she's wearing a thong?" I'd heard stories about girls who wear thongs....)

No thong. No panties. Your face confirms is, and you whisper back something silly. I can't even remember what you said now, but you were giggling and I was shushing you and putting my hand over your mouth, as if at any moment we could be caught.

Your mouth.

My hand felt your warm breath,and felt the soft bump of your lips against my fingers. It felt somehow more intimate than the kiss. I wanted to brush my fingers against your lips, as softly as I possibly could, and then brush my fingers against your cheeks, and then down to your neck. (Knowing you the way I do now, I wouldn't waste time hesitating. I know what you want. I would slip my hand behind your head and hold your neck softly but securely, so you were safe, but forced to submit. I would pull your face gently but firmly to mine,I would brush back your hair, and I would kiss and caress every inch of your face, neck and shoulders, until you were begging me to go lower.)

Then? I'll be honest; I was kind of scared of you. You had such a strong presence, such a forceful personality. I didn't know that a strong woman needs a man to be stronger when they are together like that, so that she doesn't have to make herself less, but can push her strength against him and still be overcome. All I knew then was that you were right next to me. Your firm, round -- and let's not pretend it's in any way not important -- large breasts are only inches from my hands. I itched to move down to them, but I was so worried you would get skittish.

WE'RE IN THE BASEMENT OF YOUR PARENTS' HOUSE!!!

I cock my ear to listen to sounds of pots and pans. I don't hear much, but the good thing is that anyone coming down the stairs can be heard twelve steps before hitting the landing. My momentary pause has given you time to think, and I must take immediate action or I may lose the moment. I start rubbing against your thigh again, and this time keep rubbing back over your hip. It's not a sexual movement, bu it is your ass, or at least the closest I've ever been.

"Just making sure my 'no panty' diagnosis is correct." I say solemnly in the mock whisper. You giggle again. I learned once you always kiss a girl when she's laughing, so I go in, and this time WE HAVE TONGUE! WHOOOO HOOOO!

I am all about the strange forbidden kingdom inside your mouth, but I have ulterior motives. I'm hoping you will be so distracted by my invasion that you won't notice my hand slipping up under your shirt, ever so slowly.

Your hand comes down to my wrist. Damn. I don't know what to do. Should I fight it off. No! You are firmly bringing it up inside your shirt! I can't believe this! Oh, happy day!

You whore!

I don't have much time to think about this, because....did I mention your tits? They are so spectacular, babe. There is no denying it. The material of your bra feels exotic and secret against my hand, but at that moment, I didn't care. I knew nothing about clasps, but I knew about brute force, and I pulled that bra up with sheer determination, and sunk my quivering fingers onto what i really wanted.

You gasp, while kissing me, and I feel it in the back of my throat. It is the single greatest way to hear a sound of all time. You gasp again, and suddenly your lips are all over my face, kissing me everywhere, soft, then hard and insistent.

Oh, that bench is such an awkward place to make out, but that's what we did. I can't believe it took me that long to go for it. Maybe you wondered what I was waiting for. I was shy. I was not confident, and I didn't think I was in your league, and was terrified you'd bolt at a moment's notice. I admit all that. But honey, you can never doubt how much I wanted you. And if you had, I hope my mouth, my hands, and other "evidence" you were to soon discover would disabuse you of the notion.

Speaking of which....the moment your hand bumped into my hard-on and then grabbed softly through my jeans; I was terrified that I would lose it right there. It was a feeling like I can't describe. This woman whom I have wanted for so long, and finaly gotten the courage to email, and then to talk, and finally to date, and now here we hare and her hand is only a few centimeters away from touching me, and I don't want to be left out so my hand is going down between your legs, which you instinctively squeeze shut the moment you feel me, but not as tight as you might and that lets me know that...

CRASH!

What was that? Upstairs, something got dropped. Sounds of voices, too muffled to make out the words. You get up and go over to the door, open if softly to peek your head into the stairwell.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I was so close! So close to what? Well, to something! I remember my mind struggling to latch on to some understandable concept of what it was that I was in line for that had just been permanently diverted. My grasp of the "bases" analogy then was tenuous at best. I wasn't sure I could get my hand down your jeans while you were still wearing them, and I really was murky on what I was supposed to do down there, but by Crom I was willing to give it a try!

You came back over after a minute, and you didn't sit back down. My heart sank. SO CLOSE!!! I knew later I would look back and thank the sweet chocolate Christ I had gotten this far, but right now all I knew was that my balls were going to ache for the rest of the afternoon.

You looked at me for a moment, face unreadable. Then your eyes sparkled again, and you walked across the room to that big chair. You turned back, and you crooked your finger and beckoned.

Baby, just when I was out, you pull me back in!!!

The words "Land Speed Record" and "me" are so rarely used in the same sentence, but it couldn't have taken me 3 milliseconds to get from there to you. Firmly you place me down in the chair. I want to speak but I'm too excited. (And scared.) you then straddle my legs and thighs. Oh. My. God. (I maintain that's a prayer, not a curse, for I was thanking God that I was lucky enough to have seen this day.)

The feel of you.....even through those denim jeans....those faded old favorote threadbare jeans that you still wear (and I enjoy) to this day! There was a tingling warmth...and the promise of so much more heat to come.

You slipped your shirt off your head, and showed not a hint of embarrassment that your bra was askew, one cup on and one pushed up in my earlier eagerness. You calmly unhooked it and removed it, and leaned in to...

My hand on your head stopped you. I don't honestly know if I am ever going to see these babies again, and nothing in the world is going to stop me from getting a Mighty. Good. Look.

You take my gaze calmly...kind of calmly. Even you, cool customer that you are, start to tremble a bit. You see the lust on my face. You hear my breathing slow, thicken. You feel my erection, furiously pressing against its restraints, throbbing against your thigh. You lean in and slowly, deftly, get my belt unbuckled, my pants unbuttoned and unzipped, and you pull me free to breathe.

It's like that's my signal. Roughly, with choking breath, I pull you to me. we kiss, almost a frenzy. Your lips will be swollen for two days. I had that cut on mine almost a week. but right then, we don't care. our mouths are heat seeking missiles. My hands are all over your breasts, your nipples, everything I can get my fingers on. Your hands are softer, afraid to hurt me, but you're every bit as active. Your fingernails run lightly down my shaft, teasing me with exquisite agony.

My fingers squeeze your nipples simultaneously, which makes you bite down on my tongue at the same time you grab me hard. I don't care. What a reaction, and I caused it. I love it.

Soon my hands find their way to your jeans, but with your position I can't even get a finger in. Finally you stand back up, and shimmy your jeans down off your hips, making a show of it, stepping one leg out completely and leaving them on the other ankle.

Later we'll laugh about that move. I will accus you of wanting to keep your pants close by, in case THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP suddenly bounds out from the stair. But right now I don't care about that.

What I care about is that the area of your body I have thougth the most about is right in front of me. It is fresh, and it is pure, and it is shaved! If I knew any prayers I'd say them, but right now rational thought has left my head. I can smell this intoxicating musk, and in the back of my mind I think, "I have GOT to taste that."

Problems for another day. (As it turned out, later that night, but who knew?) Right now, my biggest concern was keeping my cool. I COULD NOT lose it before you even get to me. You might forgive me. You might even think it was flattering, that you were so hot I blew it right there. But I would never forgive myself.

You are about to straddle me again, and I can't help it. I reach out and I touch those soft pink lips, moist and swollen. You quiver and you look like you're going to faint! Emboldened, I slide my hand down between your legs. You widen your stance slightly, make no move to stop me. I don't try to do anything to you. I can't. I have read Maxim for three years, and every piece of advice is forgotten. All I can do is hold my hand there, and feel your heat, and your body shaking slightly, and your wetness on my hand. I feel the small nub that I know is your clit. I rub it a few times, and your knees buckle.

Imagine if I knew what I was doing!

You pull my legs in slightly, and straddle over them. I feel your lips against my leg, wetness coursing over my thigh, tingling and quivering. Before I have any time to think, You put your hand on my shoulder and flex your calves up. Your hand is on my shaft, and you guide me to your opening. My hands are on your thighs and hips, and I try to hold you, for a few seconds, my tip quivering against your clit, and then brushing back and forth across those lips. Neither of us can do that for more than a few seconds, and on spontaneous mutual agreement we both stop at the same time, and I thrust upward and you slide downward.

And you take the whole thing.

Your eyes pop and you look like you might scream. (Single proudest moment of my life? I think so.) You body shakes in spasm, and I can't tell if it's in pain or pleasure or both; you certainly make no move to reverse the procedure. Finally after a minute of just impaling you like that, on some unseen signal, we both begin to thrust and flex.

Your hand is on my chest, then my shoulders, steadying yourself, giving extra lift. The other hand explores, stroking your clit, down to where my balls slap up against you to squeeze them. My hands are on your hips, holding steady. I try to bring a hand up to a nipple, but they're both needed for balance. I compromise by lowering my head to your chest, and you strain upward for a few moments, and allow me to suck hard. You don't say a word, but I hear the grunts, and I know I've given you a hickey right on your nipple. I don't care.

We start slow, thrusting for rhythm and timing more than force and speed. After a couple of minutes, we both pick up the pace. I would later find out you were close, too, but then I wasn't sure. What I did know was that it was a miracle that I had not exploded yet. I would soon.

Our pace increased, and so did the force. I found a way to get a little lift on that chair, and began putting my quads into it. Gravity and your momentum took care of sliding me all the way into you, but I wanted to give you a little something extra.

You pull on my chest hair (hard!), yanking out a patch.

That's gonna cost you.

My hands are now clamped to your hips, and without even thinking I pull back ten inches and come in for a hard slap. I meant to make it soft, more playful and for the gesture, but my chest hurts!

Maybe I've gone too far. I can imagine you laughing just at the thought. You snap into a higher gear, and we hit overdrive.

I can't even feel my legs anymore. Your heat envelopes me, and is tighter than anything I could have imagined. I feel it beginning deep within me, not even to my balls yet; a frozen fire in my belly that prepares to flood every inch of me. I sense a point of no return is upon me, and I strive to give you everything I possibly have in the few remaining seconds I can stay in control.

You have a crazed look on your face, and your eyes are crinkled, almost shut tight. I have never seen this look, but genetic instinct gives me all the information I know. I take the opportunity to slap your ass hard--again!--and your eyes fly open and a snarl is on your lips. You head comes down on my shoulder and you sink your teeth into me with a ferocity that shocks me. This is not some love bite. If this was my neck, you might kill me!

The pain and pure shock of it sends me over the edge, and wave after wave after wave erupts out of me, pumping and pumping and pumping into you. Just after I begin you explode too, and you take that opportunity to bite down even harder! Later, when my vision returns (and I remember how to walk, and my name, and other essentials), I will find a mirror. I could swear you broke open the skin, though you wil always claim you didn't.

It doesn't matter, babe. At that moment, it's the most beatiful agony I have ever experienced. I cannot believe it happened like that. That quickly. After so much hoping but almost no physical contact, to our two bodies and souls melting into each other. (I know that sounds silly, but you know that's what it felt like.)

I cannot believe it would happen then, and it would happen there, in your parents' basement! It will forevermore be one of my favorite spots. (And forevermore I will not be able to go down there without blushing.)

Most of all, I can't believe of all places and all times, that was ours. The time since then have taught me we were meant to be together, and we would have found each other one way or another. But such a beginning! We have always had that memory to look back on, and maybe even talk about (and relive...)

There's just one thing, babe, that has always sort of bothered me. I feel guilty I kept it from you, and I want to come clean. We've talked about that moment many times, the stars aligning (or afternoon sun), the kismet of the most unlikely place, but it was just our time.

But what I didn't tell you was that when we were called for the meal,and we hurriedly put clothes back on and smoothed hair and toweled off and sprayed that lavender stuff from the bathroom, when we were heading up the stairs I smacked your butt again, and you stopped, and we tussled and kissed at the bottom of the stairs, hands exploring just a tad more.

Of course I wanted to touch you again. One consciousness-altering experience was not enough! I couldn't keep my hands off of you. (And still can't.)

But what I didn't tell you was that there was another reason, an ulterior motive. Sweetie, you have to forgive me. You see, baby, you didn't realize that your panties had fallen out of your back pocket when we headed to the stairs, and I needed to distract you in order to slip them back into your faded jeans.

Blue Faerie Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 08:44:00 +0000

[Hyperion's Note: almost two years ago my friend Nezemnaya sent me this story of a dream she'd had. I immediately asked her if I could publish it, and then, once permission was given, in typical Hyperion-fashion I didn't get around to it for almost a year. I planned on doing it last year for her birthday, but something came up and then I forgot again. Anyway, it's her birthday again today, and better late than never, I am presenting it to you.

This really is a dream - not a crafted story - and Nezemnaya tells it that way. It often makes no sense to me, but not in a bad way, in that "dreams never make sense" kind of way. She references things I've never heard of (which could be because she lives on a different continent, the whole dream-reality thing again, or just that she's a woman), but it doesn't matter at all. Whether or not I understand what she's talking about it's an amazing dream and you're going to absolutely love it. My thanks to her for letting me publish her crazy dream, and Happy Birthday, Nezemnaya.]

I had the BEST dream today.

I was a fairy, some minor one – with a pair of small pink transparent wings like those of a dragonfly, but rounder on my back and only as wide as my hand is long from the shoulder to the elbow. They were mostly useless – did not allow me to fly, but they gave me magic. I was also able to hide them at will, so that they would not get in the way of my wearing ordinary human clothing.

I had an old knight who protected me, but some drunken royal guards stole his magical sword that gave him strength, agility and looks of a much younger man. So I decided that it was my turn to stand up for him and I started a fight with these guards in order to get the weapon back. But since I was so fragile (to the guards), and I was so angry that I could not concentrate well enough to hide my wings and physically hurting a fairy is off limits, we decided that we’d drink strong alcoholic drinks and the last man standing will win the weapon.

It turned out that they tricked me and instead of ordinary FantaStica drinks – boiling orange somethings that were popular there, they mixed a much stronger drink that had a component that is poisonous for a minor fairy like myself. I ended up on the Sobering-Up Bus that took drunks from around the city and gave them a ride home once they sobered up.

There were two very scary guys there and a human driver – a nice young human lad, about my height and age. I mind-shielded my wings like hell, so that the guys in the back of the bus would not get that I was a fairy. But somehow they still did and wanted to catch me and just have some violent – "come sit on my lap or I’ll cut your throat" – kind of fun with a fairy-girly-girl. The driver-boy helped me to escape, but we had to ditch the bus outside the city. My own home was on the opposite side of town so this boy – Tommy, he said his name was – offered that I could stay at his place – that was much closer – until morning came.

We started walking and accidentally touched each other and there was a bright spark -- like two Roman candles going off together -- and such sexual tension kicked in that it was almost unbearable.

The thing was that fairies try not to have anything in common with ordinary humans – it’s beneath them. But the attraction was so major that even holding hands while walking down the road made us both want to start taking our clothing off. Little sparks kept running from his fingers to mine making me shiver all over.

We reached an old dark apartment building and entered a tiny, poor - but unexpectedly tidy - room of his that only held a bed, a table and a chair and had a door that must have led to a bathroom. He came in and stopped by the window facing me. I locked the door and looked around trying not to eye him much. The only light in the room was from a street lamp beaming through the dark curtains. We both felt damn shy since we hardly knew each other and we also belonged to social circles so different that normally we had no chance to even have met.

I decided that it was so magical that the two of us found each other and had that much attraction towards one another that being shy and trying to hold ourselves back was definitely not the way to go. So I went to sit on the bed and faced him. His eyes looked human – yes, but they had a glow in them that I came to realize was a reflection of my wings shining. I was so overwhelmed with the whole thing that I forgot to keep hiding them. I tried to concentrate, wings blinked but did not disappear and that was when he said:

"Please, do not hide them! They are so beautiful and unearthly. I know I am not supposed to see them, but please let me enjoy the view, it might be the only time I get to see fairy wings this up-close."

I did not argue, I touched his bed sheets with my hand – they were of a rich blue color – and I realized that they were way out of place with the surroundings – fine material that felt like linen to the touch and must have cost way more than any bus driver could have earned in a year. Even I could not afford something as dainty as that. He must have noticed my confusion and said:

"These were a present from my friends; they all chipped in to get them for me. I am sorry, I do not have any white ones. You must like them better?”

I told him that loved the blue ones and that not all fairies were into white color. (Contrary to the common belief.)

This was the moment where we could not keep the small talk going any more – the tension was just too much. The palms of my hands ached with how much I wanted to touch his bare skin and see if the shiny golden sparks would appear again and trace my movements. I got up, he made a step closer towards me. The next moment we were next to each other tearing each other's clothes off. The sensation of his naked upper body against my bare breasts was simply stunning;, tiny sparks shone everywhere we touched. It looked like we created little golden fireworks each time we caressed and touched each other.

Once we were completely naked he pulled the blanket off the bed in one movement and pushed me towards the bed.

“I want to feel the weight of your body on mine, but I’ll have to hide away the wing if I want to be under”, Isaid. He nodded and I had to pull together every bit of clear mind I had to hide my wings. Concentration on hiding the magical part of me even gave me a second to think that some things are simply too much a part of your life that you cannot neglect them even in order to forget yourself to what promises to be the best night of pleasure you ever get. Like some never forget to put their glasses in a safe place, I had to be sure my wings would not get hurt.

What came next, once we both looked entirely human and in bed, upon smooth sheets, was a crazy dance of two bodies that felt too good to be possible for people who just met and touched each other for the first time. He seamed to know all the right places on my body that needed his special attention, he did everything exactly as I loved it with as much tenderness of force that was required to bring me to a boiling hot point in seconds rather than minutes or hours. He even bit me slightly on the back of my neck! Something I had to ask from all other lovers of mine, but never on our first night – it was too personal of a spot to share with half-strangers.

But I wasn’t the only one amazed. The way I touched him seemed to bring him fast too. I arched towards his arm and licked - slowly and thoroughly – on the soft little pit on his inner elbow. The way his body reacted with a head to toe shiver made me purr, I can purr when I am excited as much as that, but I have claws and mental fangs too. And I bit. Bit his shoulder hard and savage. A tiny bit harder and I’d feel the taste of his blood in my mouth, but I knew my limits. That made him scream and you could not mistake the sound for anything other than overwhelming pleasure.

And still, we were delaying THE moment. I felt him hard against my belly. I knew he was almost disproportionally well endowed. I knew that once inside me it would feel like he reached almost to the invisible part of my belly button. (Exactly as I like ‘em.) He took my hands by the wrists and pinned them above my head with his right hand while directing himself into me with the left. Oh, a lefty, I thought and giggled out load on how out of place this thought of mine was.

“You find THIS funny?!” – he almost yelled at me, looking into my face.

“Hell, no!”, I replied.

He slid into me, all of him, holding his body above mine in an arch. I crossed my ankles on the small of his back and did not move. At all. Neither did he. Just the sensation of him inside me was already almost enough to take me to a bright and shiny orgasm but I did not want that.

Not yet.

I wanted more, wanted to feel him move inside me, in and almost out and then in again, feel the weight of him on me – not the careful holding back he gave me now. I looked into his eyes and saw him being scared as if he was afraid to hurt me if he moved.

“Oh Heavens, do not look at me like THAT, or I’ll come before I make another move!” (Ha! I guess that explains the worry in the eyes.)

But I could not make myself be still any longer! I made a movement towards him, bringing him even deeper into me if that was ever possible and that broke his self-control and he rushed himself out only to come back again. It felt like all of my body melted. It almost hurt - that’s how perfect it felt – him coming and going. Sensation grew. And grew. And then all I saw was fireworks, and I flew, and I laughed, and I was crying, and I yelled. And I felt how he let himself go, braking off the last bits of self-control and doubled the golden sparks with a long groan. He came.

That second the room was suddenly lit. Light was everywhere, I was so lost to the physical sensation that my mind refused to wrap around what was happening. My body still, my mind working at over light speed. I was actually seeing what I was seeing.

WINGS! Huge summer-sky-blue wings with white lace-like edges, shaped like those of a butterfly and as if made of velvet. Wings that reached over his head and fell all the way to his feet. They were the source of light in the room!

His body went still. His eyes flicked and opened.

"Oh shit…"

"That’s all you can say, Sire?"

"I am no Sire to you! Nor to anyone."

"What......WHO are you then?"

"Just a prince."

"Oh yeah, that explains it so well and GET THE HELL OUT AND OFF ME!"

He did even better by getting of the bed in one jump. He walked toward the door that I saw earlier and opened it, the lights in the other room switched on automatically. Oh, it was a bathroom all right. The most out-of-place bathroom I could have imagined. Maybe three or four times bigger than the bedroom, it had a floor and walls of white marble with summer-sky-blue inlay here and there. I saw a pool in the floor, not a bath, but a real pool that looked like it was filled with hot water, since it was steaming a little, and it could easily fit 10 people if they stood shoulder to shoulder by its sides.

He stopped in the doorway and that was when I saw him. I may have seen him moments before but all I was thinking about were his wings and now.. I saw him. He was different. He was at least two heads taller than me, long muscular legs, wide torso, he now also looked proportioned bellow the belt too. His hair was still dark, but longer, the color of his eyes matched that one of the wings. He was stunningly beautiful, handsome too, but almost too perfect to be existent.

I could only dream of being as good at disguise as "Highest of Fairy" that he was. Different social circles my ass! He was in the King’s bloodline, as close to the top as it gets, as magical a creature as fairy go. And there I, only a few hours ago, thought that I was stepping into a mésalliance.

I sat up in bed, pulled my knees to my chin and hugged myself. My wings were hidden, I did not even have to give them a second thought. It wasn’t totally usual of them to be like that in the presence of a higher fairy, but I kinda understood how they should feel. I was hurting badly. I enjoyed him admiring my wings earlier so much. Since it was all a lie I felt way more stupid than I’d like to.

"May I ask your name?"

"I am Tobias. But please call me Tobi."

"Tommy-Tobi. I get it. I am Olly, by the way." (You gotta be polite no matter what, right?)

"Yeah, I know."

"Pardon?!"

"You got registered to my bus, remember?"

"Oh, I see....Can I go now? This is too humiliating even to someone as open-minded as I am."

"Please don’t!" He started to come back into the room, I must have winced visibly, because he stopped walking.

"I can explain."

"Oh I'm sure that would be so good, but I am not staying for any of it."

I got out of bed and started picking up my clothes that were thrown around the room. I blushed at the thought of how they ended up scatted like that, but next moment the blood was rushing to my head not out of shame, but of sheer fury. I desperately wanted a shower. I had the worst evening ever (and the best night EVER), I was tired as hell, my body ached all over and I was feeling sorry for myself. But none of the above was a reason to run. I was not the one who created the mess, but I was – even while not wanting to admit it – very curious to know how the hell did I end up in the middle of it.

Straightening myself, even the wings shoot out of my back, shining. I hoped I looked as mad as felt (although it’s kinda hard to be convincing while totally naked), and I asked:

"You do not get laid much, do you? Now it was his turn to wince.

"That’s not the point. If you let me I’ll try to explain!"

"I am way too mad to listen to anything right now. Move, I am taking a shower and you stay here."

If he was surprised he had the decency not to show it. I almost ran him over on my way into the bathroom and shut the door behind me with a pleasing bang. I threw the clothes that I have gathered from the floor minutes ago onto the marble and looked around. There were mirrors on one wall and towels - that looked shaggy and had to be very soft – on the other. Guess the color, haha.

I wish there’d been a shower here, but all I had at my disposal was the steaming pool and what looked like a Japanese-style high-tech lavatory pot in the corner. I came closer to the pool and some narrow stairs to the left of it. I had to admit it looked inviting. I touched the water with my foot, it was a couple degrees hotter than human body temperature – just what I needed. I hid the wings and got in.

Once I got into the pool and relaxed into the blissful hug of hot water I realized that I was almost too relaxed to get out. I had to pull myself together, wash quickly and get back to the real world as soon as possible. Otherwise, I’d fall asleep right here and might totally drown – that would be a perfect ending to the last 24 hours of my life. On the other hand, staying in the bathroom for as long as possible might make Mister Fucking Prince Charming uncomfortable and that would please me much.

I was out in only a few minutes, fully dressed, hair damp, shoes missing, wings covered, nose and chin up. He was fully dressed too (same kind of clothes as Before– black jeans, black t-shirt – different size), shoes included, his hair pulled to the back into a ponytail with what looked like an upper part of a sock cut off. Nifty.

"You are out quick, good. I thought you’d be there longer." (I gave myself a mental pat on the head for not following the evil one of my plans.) "The limo is waiting, we should go."

"Oh, gee, that sounds almost ‘every day life’ like to me. I’d rather get a taxi, thank you."

"Please stop playing coy, we both know you aren’t. I – my driver – will give you a ride home and I will try to explain myself on the way."

Coy? Who? Me?! Ouch.

Limo was a long, black and shiny 6-seater with a very well-equipped bar. I’d rather it had something to eat, but who am I here to complain. Tobi took a seat by the window opposite the door, I chose a seat far across, leaving a two-seat sofa between us. The car started moving; it felt too nice for my sleepy self. I had to be as uncomfortable as possible in order not to dose off.

"Would you like to go by a drive-thru?" – he asked. I had to wonder if he could read minds in addition to looks that stunned better than any gun.

"Hell yeah. But it’s on you, since I have no idea where my purse is." (Oh shit, that has to mean I do not have my keys either!)

"Don’t worry, your purse is waiting for you near your house in my bus. I had it delivered."

"You honestly do not fit into any pattern I had in mind. It’s too damn hard to figure you out! Start talking, before I loose my temper again, ‘coz next time it happens, it’s gonna be for good. And yeah, start with – what kind of a Prince are you? It’s not like I read newspapers a lot, but I do know most of our local royalty and neither of them drive buses or have butterfly kind of wings!"

~Nezemnaya

(Dreamed and written July 23, 2009; published June 21, 2011)

Morning Rumble

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 03:08:00 +0000

{This story is for Adults Only}

She looked out the window, down to the parking lot where he was striding in what can only be described as a "full strut" toward his motorcycle. She couldn't see his face under the wide brim of his black hat, but she bet he had a big ol' smile.

He swung a leg over the chassis and a moment later she heard the powerful engine growl to life. She saw his hips vibrate on the seat, and she blushed red, thinking of just a few moments ago when that same movement had torn apart the calmness of the morning.

She'd been getting ready for work when he'd suddenly knocked on the door, and burst in before she could even register surprise at someone here this early.

Damn, I forgot he still had a key. He had on black jeans, black leather jacket, and a big black hat - his outlaw outfit, he called it. He must be on his bike.

Without a word, a good morning, an explanation for what he was doing there this early or why he was there at all - especially after how everything ended - he crossed the room, spun her around, and pushed her out onto the balcony.

Her camisol was ripped, who knows where her panties had gone and....oh, god, the noises she had made. What if the neighbors heard? What if they had seen? How dare he just come in like that, with no permission, and put his hands on her body and do those things to mer?

(Although, she felt her face flush even further, if she was completely honest, she had to admit that at one point she'd screamed that if he stopped she sould stab him - and she meant it!)

Now, looking down on him, as he rumbled the machine, gripping the handlebars as he had squeezed her breasts, her own thighs still rumbling, her lips quivering, she willed him to look back up at her. Even if she would die of shame for him to see how much she still wanted him, she willed him to look up.

Look up. Look up. Look up, she thought. But he rode out of the parking lot without a backwards glance. And somehow that made her want him all the more.

I don't mind your Darkness

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 01:56:00 +0000

I don't mind your Darkness, girl

Midnight thoughts pour like sweat off your skin.

I act cross, but inside I'm thrilled

I'm huffing and puffing - let me in.

A slap of your open palm on my face

I feel it from miles and miles away

I flush with anger and shame and disgrace

But I love when you're irked and there's hell to pay

You are desirable all of the time

Happy or sleepy or lonely or sad

But Dark You pushes to the front of the line

(You're so fucking hot when you're bad)

Your Darkness swirls around my head

I want you chained and in my bed

And maybe you will use those chains -

On me, so come and end my reign.

Shower

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 20:44:00 +0000

"Taking a shower." You call out as you disappear into the bathroom. Ever since we built that new walk-in you have taken every excuse to use it. (So have I.) I've also made more than a few hints that maybe we should use it together, but that idea, while tasty on the tongue as a whisper over dinner, often plays out far differently in real life. I quit mentioning it, but I haven't given up.

I'm still surprised - in a good way - when your head pokes around the door - "Coming?" - before disappearing inside again.

I sure hope so.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

You have small votive candles lit, and nothing else. A faint red glow from the top of the sky, the echo of the echo of Sunset, can be seen out our Oriole bay window, adding just a touch of illicit back-splash red to the room. The shower is already running full-steam, the multiple shower heads pulsating from every direction, and the waterfall walls I never get tired of seeing.

You are already in the shower, dripping wet, a goddess. Your hair is soaked but still so beautiful. I step in and you hand me the shampoo to allow me to caress it into your tresses. I love your hair, love playing with it, and you love me stroking it.

Tonight is another level altogether. The thick slippery suds added to the pulsating water and the luxuriousness of your hair is a potent combination. Liquid soap is in your hands and your hands are all over my body....making it harder and harder to concentrate. I get in on some of that soap for you, and in short order we are both as lathered as two people can be.

I want to go slowly here, not ruin the moment, determined to show you how non-threatening it is to move it up a level. You are way ahead of me, and pull on my shoulders until I get the hint and drop down on my knees. Yes, it hurts, but if I complain it may kill the mood. I will gladly pay the price tomorrow.

My mind is thinking, over-thinking, trying to figure out the right gear to not upset you. Ah, screw it. I'm letting Instinct take over for awhile.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

My tongue laps between your legs like a dog in heat. Your hand tightens in my wet hair. Through the shower's incessant drumbeat and the thudding in my ears of my own heart I still hear you moan and it makes me soar. I want to take you over the edge......if you're ready.

I continue to drink in your honey and probe with my tongue. Soft lips slide into my mouth, and I taste the tinge of soap, sweat and shampoo from your body along with your continual unabated wet nectar. It is your essence, the sweetness of your soul.

My mouth moves up to your clit, hidden in the shower's storm. While my mouth gently (well, sort-of gently) suckles that gem, one, then two fingers slip inside you. At first the fingers explore gently, happy just to be there. Then slowly, but relentlessly, they thrust, as deeply as possible (and you know the size of my hands), forcing you up on your toes, if only to accommodate.

Your breathing is ragged; not pain, exactly, as the shower (and you) lubricates everything, but there is a "stretching" that makes you shudder. Your hair hangs down over your face, Could be coincidence, but I wonder if it is because you don't want me to see your thoughts. I am enjoying every second....but you....you are on another level. It is like you are tearing your Shadow away from your body. I am incredibly hard but I don't make the next obvious move. I just suck on your clit, biting gently, and work my fingers inside you. Your muscles close around them...

Ye gods they are going to have to rename the Kegel after you.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

With none-too-gentle force you tug on my hair; if I did not rise at your command I think you'd have pulled me up on your own or ripped my hair out trying. I do believe you have something on your mind.

My legs are asleep so I rise in a stagger, and stumble against the wall, banging my head against the waterfall. Disoriented, I don't realize until you have moved that my head is in your hands. You grip me tightly; too tightly, but I don't say a word of protest. You look at me like the fate of the world depends on me understanding your wordless fury. Eyes blaze into mine, and I'm held fast; were your hands to abate their pressure I wouldn't even notice.

I'm still half-staggered, the beauty of drinking you, the quick change from kneeling to standing, the pressure on my ears....I feel concussed. You pull my head down to you and take my lower lip in your mouth. It's the only part of my face you touch. you suck on my lip hard with mouth and teeth, and as you pull your mouth away you scrape your teeth on the softness of my inside flesh.

It hurts. A lot. As my mouth is returned to me I taste blood. You're a little frightening....I could not be more pleased. Take you over the edge? YOU MIGHT TAKE ME.

Your lip curls slightly, almost contemptuously, as if you read my thoughts plain as day. My head is still in your hands, though gentler now, and there seems to be a battle for control. But it's not between me and you. I'm not even in it. I'm half mad with lust for you, but in humbled awe at everything going on inside and around you. Right now, if you asked me to, I would try almost anything. But what does happen I never would have EVER expected.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

You slap my face, hard. I'm so shocked I can do nothing but widen my eyes. (In the back of my mind I note with quasi-disgust that I "grew" slightly at that slap; ye gods I hope you did not notice.)

Before I can recover your other hand slaps me; both sides of my mouth sting. Imagine an open-hand slap...with water pouring down. It's like nothing on this earth. (And yes....sheesh. I'm getting to be a regular naughty catholic school girl.)

I see your shoulder twitch with the third slap--it's coming with speed. I move quickly (I'm deceptively fast) and your own momentum causes you to stagger. I don't exactly have a plan, but I have a goal; no more slaps unless I dole them out.

I take advantage of your stumble and I pull your other hand behind your back, then use my hip to check you up to the wall. You push against the wall by instinct, the distraction allowing me to pull both hands behind your back. My hands encircle your wrists, gently, but with absolutely no chance of getting away. Your arms can't be comfortable, but surprisingly (or maybe not), you're not writhing in fury.

You don't look back at me. I can SEE your neck muscles cord and twitch in an effort to keep you from doing just that. Have I just pinned you against the shower wall, and pinned both of your hands? Or have you maneuvered me exactly where you want me?

Philosophical as I am, I'll worry about it later. I suddenly find myself with more....pressing matters at hand.

Knowing you as i do, I find myself confused by the fact that I'm (temporarily) holding your wrists, and yet you're not fighting me like a chicken-hawk. Could it have something to do with that private inner-moment earlier, when you seemed to disappear from the world? Could you have been throwing off the shackles of memory and proving your freedom by stepping into the teeth of your fear? Are you "choosing" this to show who has the actual power, since you've been maneuvering me from word Go?

Or did you concoct the whole thing just to make me THINK that's what was going on, totally confuse the hell out of me, get to slap me, give the the glimpse of a prison guard fantasy, just to yank it all away from me?

In a word, yes.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Somehow without even turning around, you know everything going through my head. Of course you do. You know me as I know you, and you are every bit as devious and far-thinking. (And in the far-back reaches of my mind, somewhere I realize that this is a gift to me. To insert a freaking mystery into everything else, knowing I would not be able to stay away....it's beautiful, simply beautiful.)

But I have other problems. In my haze of thought I have lost focus, and you take this opportunity to sweep your well-formed leg up, hook behind my knee, and pull forward, buckling me. You use THAT distraction, to easily slip from my grip, spin around, and literally jump me right there in the shower!

We tumble to the floor, you on top. (I'll feel that tomorrow.) I'M STILL HARD AS A ROCK, and so you need do no coaxing. On principle I should try to stop you but I can no longer feel my legs.

And I don't want to. All I feel is you, and all I see is you.

You lift yourself up, and impale yourself on me in one motion. You are NEVER able to take it fast, that smoothly. (Suddenly the stretching from before makes more sense.) You put your hands on my chest, and lean down over me. This gives your clit friction against my skin as you begin to ride me. Hard.

Your hair falls over my face. I can barely see you though it, and i struggle to. I don't care if my lip bleeds for days, and if my cheeks have two hand prints tomorrow for all the world to see. I'll moan about my bumped head and bruises tomorrow. Right now all I want is you. I am inside you, and you devour me even as i penetrate you. And I must see you.

I shake your hair away and there is your face. Filled with such tenderness and yet such fury. Fury for me? Maybe. Mostly, though, just fury. The good kind. You have always been a ferocious woman, even if people didn't know it. It's time they did.

My mouth finds yours and we attack, not at maiming speed, but plenty fierce. Our bodies sync, and my thrusting is added to your intense downward pressure and back-and-forth gyrations. Water continues to pour down over us, but has become almost forgotten in the mangled purity of your moment. Of my moment. Of OUR moment.

I always need you, I always want you, but right now I feel another door open, and I don't even have a word for it. I don't need one

I will push through that door with you, and we will discover it together.

[I had more pictures than I could fit into the story. I put the rest on Monkey Barn, because I liked them even if I couldn't use them.]

The Affair of the Pudding and the Shirt

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 06:47:00 +0000

"I think we have some chocolate pudding in the fridge." I say to her. "Would you mind getting it? Two spoons."

"Sure," she says, trying to hide a puzzled look, not upset at me asking, but startled because I don't like to ask people to get me things unless it's absolutely necessary.

All part of my secret plan.

She's wearing her favorite shirt, she's had it it as long as I've known her. It says "Furman University" on the front. She didn't go to Furman, and no one in her family went there. She says that it was her brother's old girlfriend, a Christmas gift or something, but the details have changed a few times, and she acts so furtive about it that I'm positive that it was actually an old boyfriend.

I don't press it. I suppose it COULD bother me, but why? He's long been history, and she loves the shirt. Besides, she may be wearing the shirt he gave her forever ago, but I'm the one who gets to peak around underneath it.

This brings us back to the Pudding Trip and the Shirt.

It's not one of those women's nightshirts, the kind that goes down to the knee, or even longer. The Furman shirt is regular T-shirt size. Even better, it was regular T-shirt size whenever she had this boyfriend long ago (or if we're pretending to go by her story, when her brother had that girlfriend). Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying she doesn't have her same 21 year old figure...but repeated washings, etc.....

The shirt BARELY covers the essentials, and even that boggles my mind at times, seemingly defying the Laws of Physics.

Needless to say, it's my favorite shirt to watch her in. I've made a few comments as such, but really, she has NO IDEA how much I love seeing her walk around in that shirt.

It seems silly, when I have plenty of opportunities to see her naked, but there's something so sexy about watching her in that shirt, walking around, my eyes GLUED to the hemline, way too excited to see even a glimpse of panties. Call it my inner 12 year old boy making an appearance. Something about the forbidden, even the everyday quality of her favorite sleeping shirt and regular panties...I don't know. It makes me happy.

I follow her, silently (I can be silent!) down to the kitchen. The thought occurs to me that in the dark house, the only light from the fridge she's about to open...if she senses me behind her she could be really scared...which in turn could make her really pissed. Hmmm. I hadn't thought that through when I first conceived this plan. Well, too late to back out now. Besides, even if she's pissed, it may work in my favor. (Physiologically, scaring a girl has the same chemical effect of the first stage of sexual excitement. It's why Horror movies will never go out of style.)

She's already at the fridge by the time I get there. In spite of myself I gape at her, open-mouthed. She's bent over to find the pudding (I hid it at the back of the second shelf), and in so doing her shirt has pulled up enough to see all of her panties and even some of her back. Mmmmmmm.

Can't get enough.

She finally pulls the pudding out and I give that low throaty chuckle. She shrieks a little and then glares at me in the dark.

"What are you doing? You scared me! Why are you here when you asked me to go get the pudding??? YOU SCARED ME!!!!!!!"

Simple truth is often best. "I asked you to get the pudding because I wanted to follow you and watch you bend over at the fridge," I say, my smile anything but apologetic.

"What are you, 12 years old?" She's still glaring, but I heard...just a tremor in her voice. Not a crack - she's still pissed, but she will forgive me, and some small part of her liked that I would go to all this trouble just to see her more of her body. She's still glaring, though - it's time to attack again before she can decide I should be in the dog house tonight.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to scare you. I start thinking about your luscious body and I lose all sense or reason..."

I let the words hang, and move slowly towards her. She knows it's a line. She knows I say it because I know it works. She also knows it's true, and that's WHY it works, and that makes all the difference. Before she can think of a comeback I'm to her, picking her up and carrying her over my shoulder back to bed.

She shrieks again, but this time it's in a good way. I know I'm almost home free.

"At least let me put the pudding down! I don't want to spill it all over me!"

I laugh again, smacking that butt I worked so hard to see. "Darlin', be patient. You're getting ahead of me."

By the time we reach the bedroom she's decided to spill some on me.

It's only fair. How else would she get to eat any?

After

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 21:23:00 +0000

After,

He pulls her gently to him, engulfing her in his arms, his chest, his scent, his presence. She loves feeling safe and protected in his embrace. She cherishes being able --if just for a little while--to let go, to drop the mask, to have it be okay not to be in charge and liberated and responsible.

For a little while they will whisper conspiratorially, unnecessary in the otherwise empty apartment, but After what just happened, After shyness and guilt were overcome (had she really begged him to make her....?), After lust and release, After swelling and sweat, After abandon and a Bad Girl, it seems right and proper to now speak intimately in hushed tones.

When she got up to head to the bathroom she heard his breathing change, get ragged at a mere glimpse of her slick sticky scuffed skin, and she was glad for the darkness, both embarrassed and elated that After All That a stolen glance could still make him hungry.

Sometimes she felt like she wanted him all the time, but nothing in the world turned her on like his desire for her, him reaching for her, his digression into feral state, the growl so deep in his throat she thanked her guardian angel that she wanted him just as much.

After, he was playful, teasing in a gentle way, sometimes just a little bit insecure, seeking her approval, worried he had not done it right. She soothed him without seeming to even be aware he was not projecting total confidence, stroked his ego in an offhand way so he would not feel weak and pathetic.

In Truth, she liked his vulnerability. She was always worried she wouldn't please him, worried about inevitable comparisons, her place on the List, the paradoxical fear of appearing too sluttish and not wanton enough.

And when he took her! Beyond any lover she'd ever known, beyond even what she herself could achieve with a powerful detachable shower head in a bubble bath with scented candles and half a bottle of wine.

She knew her limits.

She thought she had known. He shattered them all. Or, she shattered them, when she was with him. She did not care about the semantics, just the shiver, the sugar and the sweetness that poured out of her in response.

Now, After, they cuddled - "Spooned," as the experts called it, talking quietly. He did “post-game” analysis, like he does when watching some sports game she pretended to care about just so she could be with him. He has a million ideas for "Next Time." He gets inspired like this often, plans for projects, most of which will never happen, but she's happy to see him happy, sharing silent credit in his glow.

He strokes her skin as he talks, as if not even aware that he is doing it. He strokes her side, and her thigh, and when he remembers (or she asks), her hair. It is not sexual , but in a strange way it is more than sexual, and she cherishes these touches every bit as much as the ones before.

(Well, almost as much....)

Soon he'll wind down, the whispers turn to murmurs. She feels his heartbeat through his chest pressing against her back, the not-uncomfortable weight of his arm wrapped around her body. Sometimes he'll slip his hand back down below, and once or twice it's even led to a quick return to Round 2! But mostly his hand is just a reminder to her that he is there.

Sometimes she will pull his hand up to her breast, not for squeezes and caresses (well, not just for that), but to connect with him, to anchor him to her as a woman in some way she barely grasps but she was sure psychologists had a term for.

The trash has to go out in the morning - just a few hours from now, and has she paid the mobile phone bill online? Better iron that skirt and spot-check the blouse for that big meeting in the morning, and give her presentation another look over to see if.....

It all had to be done, but it could wait a little while. She had to do those things, but she Needed to be right here, right now, in his arms, Life would still be there waiting.....After.

Colors of War

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 02:30:00 +0000

Colors of War

Before the battle he is calm, quietly making his preparations in the semi-dark; Dawn not yet arrived. It is she who is nervous, trying not to show it. Her fingers twitch again and again, wanting to touch him, to fix some nonexistent crease in his collar. She wants the physical connection, desperate to feel close, needing to touch him and feel his touch.

She tries not to think it could be for the last time. His is a Warrior, and she is so proud of him, proud to be his. On these mornings he needs her strength, and so she forces herself to stillness, and keeps the things she wants to say inside her head.

He ate last night, a large meal of his favorites that she prepared for him, with all of her love. They slept intertwined, his arms around her, making her feel safe. She wanted him inside her, but she knows his routine before battle, and he needs to be at full strength.

The first time, when she pouted, he told her that being with her was the most amazing thing, but there was a 30% chance that he would not be able to walk in the morning. She argued that he grossly overstated it, but in her mind she had to admit when they got going they got Going, and they’d wear each other out.

So she contents herself to lying wrapped in his arms, unmade love to, pretending to sleep so he will, but worried sick over the coming onslaught. He always tells her not to worry, it cannot change anything, but she cannot help it. She would never ask him to give up being a Warrior; that’s who he is, and she would not change him for anything. But he is also her man, and she wants him safe at home in one piece, piercing her, not hearts and throats.

His preparations are done, he is ready to leave. She bites her lip on the inside, willing her face to stay positive and encouraging, cursing the unshed tears in her eyes that betray her. His kiss is passionate, an ocean of forever; a touch of salt from her tears only adds to the bittersweet beauty.

He looks at her with such love and gentleness, with a whispered, “I will return to you, Inamorata, in this life or the next. Keep watch for the Color."

A fierce hug --stronger from her even than him--as if she could imbue him with her fury, and he is moving to the door, pulling on weapons and armor, his face hardening to battle-violence.

And then he is gone.

She tries to fill the time. She has been working on knitting a blanket for their bed during the bitterly cold months. She cannot keep her mind on what she is doing and gives up after a third missed stitch.

An attempt to read a favorite book goes nowhere, either, even one featuring ripped clothes in a moonlit garden. Normally she savors and suckles the scenes of violent need and frantic union in the midst of strife. Now they just serve to remind her of him out there in the snow and mud, the sweat and blood. She even feels a flash of jealousy for the story’s heroine for getting what she wanted and the thought shames her to the bone. She tells herself she is just missing her man.

She looks out the window more times than she can count, eyes riveted to the top of the hill, where different-colored Flags signal status out on the battlefield. All morning long there is only Green, which means: “The battle is commenced and goes on; no new information available.”

She strains her eye, hoping to see the Golden Flag that signals Victory. She would even take the White Flag of Surrender, though she would die before uttering that thought aloud. Her heart stops as her eye catches an imagined swath of Red; every village woman’s fear. They will whisper about it in small groups of twos and threes.

Of the Black Flag, no one ever speaks. No one. Ever. No one even thinks it, but it rests in the subconscious; a shadow of unnamed terror.

There are other Flags of difference color combinations and symbols; explaining at a glance a score of different possibilities. She knows them all well, and she also knows that information coming back is often garbled. Rather than reveal every rumor, the Village Council has decided to only post what they can confirm, and it is common not to see the first Flag change until the afternoon wanes.

She takes the midday meal at the Inn, her desperation for any whisper of a rumor of news overcoming her distaste for the lugubrious women and the false bravado of some of the men, those too old or too “important” to fight.

Worst of all are the children, who almost never cry, but stare silently, eyes wide, almost blank, tough kids forced to grow up in a tough time. It is those eyes that chase her back home, haunted and shaken. She waits. Agonizingly. Nothing makes the time go faster. Nothing lets her thoughts slow down.

Finally, in the late afternoon, she cannot take it any more. Impulsively she straps a blade to her ankle by its sheath (and another hanging hidden down her back), quickly makes a bundle of bread and cheese with a skin of water brought up from the well, slips on the coat of ermine he made for her and quietly steals out of the village.

She knows what she is doing carries a great deal of risk, but she just cannot handle waiting here any more. She flows through the woods silently, a ghost unseen by hostile eyes. She knows the woods well, as she used to come here with him in Spring and Summer, picnic lunches and languorous afternoons, the canopied branches silent sentinels to their passion.

She knows if she can get to the Army Camp she will be safe enough, and if the Camp is overrun that means he is fallen, and if that happens she doesn’t care what happens to her anyway.

She doesn’t see anything. She doesn’t hear anything. But she senses something. Someone.

She stills instantly, wary, scared but not panicked, listening to her senses and searching for what does not feel right. She is not alone in the woods; of that, she is sure. Slowly, she frees her knife from its ankle sheath, ready to run if she can, fight if she has to, determined to sell her life dearly, showing the heart of a warrior, one befitting of whose woman she is.

Just ahead is a clearing; she knows enough to go around, to not get caught out in the open. She catches movement on the other side of the clearing and watches, ready for a trap. Whoever it is takes no pains to hide his presence.

Then he steps into the clearing, and she understands why.

Heart in her throat: is this a mirage? Could her man be here now, not fifty feet away?

He could. He would. He was. He is.

With a half bitten-off shriek she is running to him, eyes drinking in the sight of him, searching anxiously for signs of injury. There is blood on his body, but she can see it is not his. The blood of the vanquished bathes his glory: her warrior, her man.

She sheds her coat and drops her bundle (the knife she keeps; one never knows when enemies might be about), and leaps with abandon into his arms.

He grunts--no wounds does not mean no bruises--but she cannot bring herself to care about that right now. All she can think about, all that matters in the world is being in his arms, tasting him on her lips.

He holds her tight, the dust and sweat and blood of battle rubbing off of his skin onto hers. It feels wonderful. They cling to each other, kissing away the worry, the fear melting with the sweet heat of their embrace.

Snow starts to fall in the clearing, soft and thick in the waning light. Her coat left on the ground, an icy wind down off the mountain pass. She does not feel the slightest breeze.

If she does feel the snow at all as it falls from the sky, it is as if she is wrapped in the pure White Flag of her Surrender.

Redress

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Mon, 10 May 2010 08:44:00 +0000

Redress

re·dress (rĭ-drěs')

tr.v. To set right; remedy or rectify.

n. 1.a satisfaction for wrong or injury; reparation.

1.b relief from distress

He watched her walk into the restaurant in her red dress; a statement, a painting. Every eye on her as she glided, swayed to her table and sat down. She had not seen him, and he stayed in the shadows to observe.

He had been assigned to her two weeks ago, two weeks of gathering information, watching her, learning her habits, her movements, her ways, and he felt close to her. Though he'd never been within twenty feet of actually touching her, his eye knew every inch of her body, every nuance of her mouth as it twitched in almost-amusement or pursed slightly in thought. He knew every shade of her ever-changing eyes, almost a mood ring to her feelings.

The war had lasted almost four years, and tonight was the night. She was the key. He didn't know why, only that she was important. She must not be allowed to make the rendezvous. It was his job to do what had to be done, to get redress. He understood this and accepted it.

What he didn't count on was falling in love with her through a spy's telephoto lens.

It did not change what had to be done, but it did complicate his feelings. He was a professional, had long since learned not to see people, merely targets, but somehow she was different. Beautiful of course, but he wasn't naive enough to just fall for smooth skin and flashing eyes, hypnotic curves and....

There was just something about her....

Using the Tech he had with him he was able to perfectly hear everything at her table. She ordered a glass of champagne, her voice low and melodic, a musical chime that nearly stopped his heart.

Must not lose concentration....

Her dress flowed down to the floor, but with slits on both sides; he caught tantalizing glimpses when she would cross and recross her legs. The middle of the dress was fitted, almost molded against her skin, while the neckline would almost be indecent, if not for a translucent half-shawl on her shoulders. A blood red color with subtle black accents, it was a dress for a presidential ball, too much for this upscale restaurant.

Her goal was to be noticed then, but by who? Could it be that They didn't know who they were looking for? It made no sense. He briefly considered the options. Tracking her habits, bugging her phone and email had been one thing, but it led to precious little information on her actual plans. It would also help if he knew why she was so important, but Need-to-Know...

So much of how he would respond depended on what she was there for, and so far, other than make every male in the place turn his head and pant (and more than a few of the ladies!), he didn't know WHAT she was after. It was time to shake things up and see what happened.

Using his Tech equipment he could whisper from where he was hidden across the restaurant and she alone would hear it. Quietly, so quietly, he breathed, "A blood-red dress might hide all manner of small wounds."

He watched her closely to see how she would react. A slight, very slight stiffening of her neck was the only indication she'd even heard him. She was good. Very good. She gave no more indication of knowledge, and he decided not to try the trick again, but instead had a dessert sent to her, a simple bowl of strawberries and cream.

She accepted the dish gratefully from the waiter as if she expected it, without looking around (even carefully; he would have noticed) to see who might have sent the treat. She did not start to eat (was she afraid of poison?) but simply sat quietly, as if waiting for something.

He heard her say quietly, under her breath, as if she KNEW only he would be able to hear, "Thanks for the dessert, but under the circumstances, I think I will pass." She had not touched the champagne, either. "Well," he thought, "You don't live this long with all she's been through without being careful."

She got up and went to the bar, generously handing her bowl of strawberries to a patron, who shyly took the offered sweet. She took out a fan and waved air at her face, though he could tell from here she was without a drop of sweat. Maybe she felt the heat somewhere else....

He should have been deeply concerned, maybe even a touch rattled by her surmising his Tech surveillance, but he was enjoying the cat-and-mouse interplay between them too much. On the spur of the moment he decided bolder action was required. She wouldn't be expecting it.

He knew she would handle it like she did everything, but what about other eyes in the restaurant who were watching her for more than a glimpse of flesh?

"Dovie'andi se tovya sagain," he mumbled. [It's time to toss the dice.]

Checking his weapons one final time he moved out from the shadows of the wall and walked boldly across the restaurant, splendidly (if not as flashily) dressed in a dark grey pinstripe suit with a tie that just happened to mirror her dress. Coincidence, and a lucky one, he hoped.

He approached her table and his legs wanted to buckle, his heart wanted to stop. Watching her, tracking her, being with her every step the last few days did not prepare him for being in her presence. She had an aura, an energy, a radiance that melted him inside.

(She also smelled like jasmine and honeysuckle, and she had removed her shawl, giving him glimpses of her neckline. There were...other thoughts on his mind too.)

He did not allow any of it to stop his movement, slow him down, or even show on his face. He simply smiled at her warmly and slid in next to her in the booth as if she had been waiting for him all along!

He went so far as to slip an arm around her neck and leaned in casually to kiss her cheek as if he had done it a thousand times before. Ignoring the pterodactyls in his stomach and the electric shock of touching her skin with his lips, he murmured, "This cannot come as any surprise to you, but there really is no way out of here. The best thing to do is to stay calm and not cause any trouble or make a scene. Am I understood?"

In response she turned to look him straight in the eyes, her pupils flashing from jade green to hazel to cornflower almost faster than he could follow. She breathed deep, as if she didn't know when she would get air again, and then she leaned forward suddenly, aggressively, and bit his lip in a vicious kiss!

Inside his head there were explosions, and he struggled not to lose consciousness, so overwhelming was the experience of her lips caressing his mouth while her teeth pulled at his own lips with fury. In pure self-preservation mode he kissed her back almost as savagely, their teeth crashing against each other's like swords and spears on an ancient battlefield.

He forced his tongue down her throat (she bit it like a wild animal, but he held his position), at least until she curled perfectly french-press manicured nails around his neck and dug in painfully to the soft flesh. It only made the kiss more intense.

He had to regain the upper hand quickly, and in a move that shocked even him with its daring, his hand slipped between the slit in the side of her dress, up over her quivering toned thigh and advanced straight to her sex.

He planned on only a quick-contact touch, his only goal to startle her so badly that she momentarily gasped so he could quickly gather himself and pull whatever weapon might be needed, but this did not work out as planned, because as his thrusting fingers forced egress between her thighs he found to his utter amazement that she was

A) not wearing any further defenses to the region and more importantly...

B) dripping wet.

His momentum carried his fingers all the way to her opening, and while a few moments' thought might have told him this was a bad idea, his brain had long since left rationality behind. His fingers entered her with all the ferociousness she had shown earlier in biting him so roughly.

She moved her mouth down to his throat, and for a moment he was worried she might actually try to kill him by ripping it out with her teeth, but she was responding as a woman now, not an operative. She sagged against him, her body in full convulsion to the climax that had overtaken her almost instantly.

This was no time to let up. He seized on his advantage by thrusting his fingers inside her repeatedly, again and again, not wanting to give her time to recover and pull some other fiendish maneuver. She softly moaned protests and tried to claw his eyes out, but she was strangely ineffectual in this.

It was at this moment that he remembered the restaurant full of people, and while the dark ambient lighting and location of the booth afforded a fair amount of privacy, he knew only too well what types of people were here with a goal to stop him. His eyes began to automatically swivel across the floor.

He noted with surprise that no one had yet moved from their positions, until he realized that the other agents and operatives must be even more shocked to see such a display. This meant the best chance of his success was not to stop, but to continue! Well, if he had to, he had to....

He pulled her roughly onto his lap (she offered little resistance, in fact scooted part way herself), and he started kissing her neck, scanning his eyes all the while. He was slightly vulnerable in this position, but keeping her in front of him was a good idea. To further keep her off balance he snaked one hand around her neck and down her dress, ruthlessly finding an already hard nipple and pinching it with purpose.

She would not go gently into that good night. Her hands found his swollen response and her nails dug in mercilessly through the thin suit cloth. He wanted to roar but instead bit at her neck a bit harder than he intended. drawing a small trickle of blood, which thankfully disappeared into the dress.

She didn't keep torturing him for long, having found the zipper and quickly delivered him into her hands. Her actions were just as rough, but he sensed it was not in an attempt to injure him (well, not JUST in an attempt), but rather her enthusiasm for the moment. He had no complaints, as both hands were now on her breasts, one pulled openly free from her dress as he shamelessly massaged and kneaded her flesh as she writhed under his touch.

He had only begun to wonder if he had the audacity to make the final move when she beat him to it without hesitation. Ripping the back of her dress enough to pull it up off her hips, she slid her dripping wet folds of soft molten flesh over his own heat, and without pause plunged down upon him with all the force she could manage.

The near certainty of catastrophic danger demanded a quick resolution, but even if it had been just any other find-dining establishment in any other city in all the world there was no way, after how their bodies had found each other, responded to each other, spurred each other further and further, that the fusion could last long.

They made the most of it, both thrusting so violently as to appear as rutting dear in a forest, seemingly oblivious to the now-stopped-dead restaurant where all eyes were focused on their heedlessly slamming bodies, and certain people eased weapons free....

Without stopping for a moment his hands went to his jacket side-pockets and pulled out powerful semi-automatic handguns. Without even turning his head (he was sucking on her neck), he shot dead-aim, both hands pointed in separate directions, again and again, felling one after another after another.

Each shot seemed to push her even further, and as his clips emptied she moved into warp drive, a frenzy to shake the heavens. The last of his bullets found their targets as she came in a tidal-wave of passion, pulling him in further, joining her at that apex of connection, not just flesh merging, but hearts, minds, souls.

(Or at least, that's what it felt like.)

Both climaxed, continuing to rock for a few more seconds, momentum and muscle memory not giving up. He calmly reloaded both guns one-handed, eyes scanning the room for possible missed targets. There appeared to be none. Quietly he said, "We best be going, my Lady." She nodded mutely.

He gently lifted her off him and, proper adjustments made, he stood. Seeing her torn dress he gallantly offered his suit jacket which she graciously accepted.

Guns still out and pointed, they moved quickly to the back of the restaurant and out the door. In his mind he was already composing his report explaining all this. She looked up at him and said, "I have to admit, for the longest time I thought YOU were the one sent to kill me."

His enigmatic smile could have meant anything.

THE END?

Half-Remembered Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 08:44:00 +0000

[As soon as I awoke I wrote down every detail I could remember, scrambling to battle the Fading, desperate to preserve the memory, the emotion, in hopes that reading it over would help the Dream come again.]

Crawling through my bedroom window; shame on your face, battling desire.

If you were just some whore, some slut, it wouldn't matter. But it is you. It is YOU. Conflicted, you are half-paralyzed with guilt. BUT YOU COME ANYWAY.

You crawl into my room wearing only a nightgown. You kneel before the bed, Shame and Desire still waging their epic war within you. You are two feet away from me in the dark, but I stay silent, unmoving, as if still asleep, watching you through half-lidded eyes. Kneeling there, it almost seems like you are praying.

Standing, decision made, the nightgown falls free to puddle on the floor. It is the only thing you had to remove. You are now naked in my bed, and I feel you burrowing into me: for warmth, for strength, for protection, and so that I know you're mine.

You love how small you feel against me, how enveloped under my covers, in my bed. Others might wish they had the courage, the daring to crawl through that window, but only you managed to capture my eye, my mind, my lust, my desire.

Hair fanned out over me, covering and claiming....breasts pressed against my chest; so that our hearts beat into one another's.

Slip on top of me....press your hot wetness onto my thigh....drag it up to my stiffening response, which you stroke slowly to full potential.

My hands slip to your waist, and I lift you up gently, placing the weapon of my desire at your opening, the fire of coming union already more than flamed.

Under the blankets, thrice a secret; in my bed, in my room, in the dark. Using your thighs and calves as forceps, you slowly push yourself down, taking me in, slowly, territory covered and conquered, and then slowly, back up again.

It takes twenty strokes for you to claim all of me. twenty long, slow strokes to saturate me fully with your lust, ensnaring me within you.

Your palms flat against my chest, for leverage. Watching you, half smile on my face, letting you set the pace. It was you who came through the window, and for now, this is your battle. You bite your lip in concentration and to keep silent as you move in the darkness, working up and down, in and out, getting every last bit you came for, and will come for again.

Her Elegance is Back

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 09:44:00 +0000

Her Elegance is Back

Of all the delicious delightful decadent wonders of watching a Woman,
The flow and form of her saturated symphony,
The throat-clearing thickness of honey-suckled nectar,
Resplendent and radiating from her in waves;
Of the curves and swerves, the alleys and valleys;
Of the ineffable elegance that infinitely bathes her body in Heaven's Celestial Light;
Of the sensual sonnet that is the mere sight of her,
The most overlooked aspect, the most in need of rapturous rhapsody,
Is that which she may never see:
Her back.

Of faces that launched a thousand ships;
Of hair as soft as angels' wings;
Of bountiful breasts and thumb-flicked firmness;
Of the sinuous slope of her waist;
Of creamy thighs and sculpted calves;
Of rounded hips and callipygian curvaceousness;
Of the soft folds of flesh that truly are the center of the universe;
Of all the consecrated arts and pink parts that make up a Woman,
Thousand upon thousand poets have taken quill to parchment
In an attempt to expound.

But her back....

That soft expanse of skin, not meant to flush with flame.
So quiet and unassuming, her back,
Perhaps fit for powerful fingers to rub and knead,
As the day's weariness and worry is washed away, or

Tucked in the Small,
That spot simply made for his hand,
As she's held in his arms
In private embrace.

But there is so much more to her back than meets the eye.

A woman of sophistication and grace cannot traipse
Through the market square advertising her wares.
Ah...but the refined taste, the confident
Courage of a woman who would display a disrobed back!
This, we do Not scourge, but celebrate!
A low-cut dress in front might be called sleazy, even trash,
But the same glimpse from behind is elegance, not flash.

Such a vast field of
Unadorned
Unconquered
Territory, her back -
What matador wields his red cape so enticingly?

She may not see this part of her,
The supple, rippling, poetic skin,
But a Woman knows it's there.
In the Inexorable dance of Seduction, a woman will
Peek over her shoulder,
Head tilted just slightly, as if marking distance to her pursuer.
(Her prey?)

Our earliest genetic memory was for a man to take his woman from behind.
Flesh to flesh, he is pressed into her back,
Burning its silken smooth feel into his chest.

The sway of hips, the heave of breasts, may be
Sex at its most basic level;
But seeing her bare back, her head a quarter turned with
Just a hint of a smile on parted lips -
This is the true trigger of leavening lust.

There is something personal and
Private about a woman's back,
And to watch her is to do so unobserved -
Or so you would think.

For a woman may have her back to you, but
She always knows where you are, and
Which way to to turn.
This is the essence of her elegance.
That slight shiver as she feels your
Breath just below the nape of the neck.
You have found your way back home.

Strain of Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 16:18:00 +0000

She lay in his arms, hair splayed out on his chest, ripe full breasts crushed against his skin, legs intertwined so that her wetness marked him.

The fire inside her burned, making her helpless, wanting him terribly. More than just a fire, it was a feeling down low, a pressure, but it pulls and she had to very nearly grab onto something to stay steady. She needed to fight back, to even the battlefield. She pressed her legs against him, radiating desire, and waited for him to fall into her snare.

He felt her heat against his thigh, and he turned to her, breathing ragged, eyes cloudy, and lowered his mouth to an already-swollen nipple. He started gently, almost shyly, but only for a moment as her soft moans and her body's response drove him to a ravenous frenzy. She would be marked for days and she did not mind the pain she knew would be there in the morning. When he pulled his head up his lips were wet and glistening, and when he lowered those lips to hers she might have tasted the faint trace of blood.

This too she did not mind.

He kissed her so passionately that she began to emit a deep, pulsating heat. Every touch from him sent her into bouts of sweet agonized writhing, the sounds of her pleasure whispered in his ear, and he slipped a hand to her waist, to steady himself, and then lower, to her sex, to match her increasing frenzy. She gasped and thrust at him, grinding against his hand and wrist. She stretched, pulling her nipples across his chest, feeling the delicious torture of her suckled skin against his rough chest. She sank her teeth into his neck and his whole body stiffened with shock.

He renewed his assault on her with his hand, fingers soaked with her need, and she begged him to impale her. When he did not respond fast enough she bit him again and again, and clawed at his back wildly. He growled deep in his throat, and his kisses were rougher, bruising her lips deliciously. She bit back against those lips, trying to draw blood. His hands closed in her hair, not gently, pulling her the way he wanted her. He rolled her over so that he was on top of her, but not with his weight; just his desire.

At that fevered pitch and pace neither could last very long. They did not need to.

They both came violently together.

He pulled her into his arms, held her safe, and whispered softly into her ear as they fell asleep together, both surrendering to the battle's strain.

The Season of my Madness

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:41:00 +0000

The season of my madness,

The loathing in her eyes;

The reason for my sadness,

The hurt, the pain, the lies.

The quenching of my fire,

The singing of her lips;

The drenching of desire,

The stinging of her whips.

The forcing of my stillness,

The gaining of her trust;

The coursing of my illness,

The rage of blood and lust.

The grasping of my fingers,

The tasting of her skin;

The gasping as she lingers,

The wasting of my sin.

The grinding and the tussle,

The spilling of my seed;

The binding of our muscles,

The filling of our need.

Screaming to the rafters,

Attrition of the fight;

Dreaming with her After,

Submission, for the Night.

Silken Tendrils of Smoke

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 08:44:00 +0000

Thoughts of you float in my head like
Silken tendrils of smoke.
Ephemeral,
Elusive,
Almost too beautiful to behold,
Like Dark Angels' wings.

If I could reach my hand inside my head
And close my fist around Thought....
I would pull out the faint scent of
Deep wood burn,
A light sting in my eyes,
Smeared ash dragging 'cross my finger-tips.

Each of these things are you,
In their way:
Aspects, Metaphor,
Memory of a Memory.

But they are not you.

My fist opens,
My fingers uncurl,
My palm is empty.

I am simply unable to grasp
Thoughts of you,
Those silken tendrils of smoke;
The smoldering incense
of my Mind's Fire.

More Than Halfway There

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 16:56:00 +0000

(You are now) more than halfway there,
Such Sweet Delicious Agony;
My Want, My Need, My Lust: laid bare,
They course, and burn, inside of me

Too long Desire stayed inside,
Terrified you'd see my flame;
Now there's no more place to hide,
My reddening skin is not for shame.

No more am I bounded by fear,
I want to taste, I want to see;
My clothes, my pride, are yours to tear;
Rip out my soul and set me free.

Come taste the fruit of what I share;
(My Love, you're) More than Halfway there.

IN THE NIGHT

noreply@blogger.com (Hyperion) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 12:35:00 +0000

IN THE NIGHT

Come back often and take hold of me, sensation that I love, come back and take hold of me -- when the body's memory revives and an old longing again passes through the blood, when lips and skin remember and hands feel as though they touch again. Come back often, take hold of me in the night when lips and skin remember...

-Constantine Kavafy

It was in the night she missed him the most.

She was a strong, independent woman. She knew what she wanted. She didn't want him. He was no good for her. The lies. The booze. The girls. She was through with him, and glad to be so.

But some nights, long stifling nights, the nights when the clock moves slow and thoughts race, on those nights, her body betrayed her. She missed him on those nights. Missed him something fierce.

She missed the way he would reach for her in the dark. The way he would possess her, make her his own. She was a strong independent woman, and she could make her own way. But sometimes, in the night, she yearned for his touch. Yearned for knowing fingers and hot breath on her neck.

Her body ached for the feel of him. Ached to be obliterated into his presence. It was not something a strong independent woman talked about, but it was there all the same.

Her body remembered being taken in his arms, so sure and rock solid. In his embrace the fights, the problems melted away. The entire world was in that bed, in his arms.

He would run his lips lightly up her neck to her ear, and then down past the hollow of her throat to her waiting breasts. Her nipples would harden in anticipation, her skin flashed lightning at his touch.

He would continue, probing her, caressing her, expertly, up and down her body. She would shiver and squirm in the darkness, responding to his every move. After a time he would move over her, and she would feel him swell against her belly. Her muscles would tighten, her hips clench as they rose to meet him.

She never felt complete unless he was inside her.

There, they made a symphony together, coordinated movements, perfect, even in the dark. Neither talked, but the quiet sounds of love escaped them both. She would match his thrusts in body and spirit.

It wouldn't take long. She could feel her body tighten even more, and his body would then tighten as well, as if waiting for her signal. Fiercely and furiously they would crash into those final few inevitable moments, until the beautiful agony pierced them both. She would cry out in the dark, unable to keep the quiet mood. Sometimes he would too.

For a few more seconds their bodies thrust together, as if unable and unwilling to believe the climax signaled closure. Finally, he would collapse on her, breathing heavily, his sweat falling (not unpleasantly) on her cooling body, his heartbeat pronounced against her breast. That was her favorite time. Even more than the rapture of their mutual release, it was after he finished, when he sagged against her. It was like she was holding him up, the only thing keeping him anchored to this world. No matter what problems they had outside their bed, it all washed away in that moment, and she felt incredible tenderness towards him.

Her body missed all of those things. She could tell herself how much better she was now—and she truly was—but her body remembered. Her body remembered touches in the dark, hot breath and delicious pain, impaled on the point of his world. Most of all, her body remembered how he would cling to her after, and even more than the sweetness of their love, it was that tenderness that made her soul ache.

It was in the night she missed him the most.