Enigma VS Madonna - The Enigma Within (okay so begin to read when the music begins)
The soft stir held in the sway of her hips soft movement. Soft skin danced at the edge of the light. Her eyes posed a question that he longed to answer. But could he? Did all have to be known. What did he know? His eyes were tempted by her dance. The full treasure hinted in the promise of soft gyration of her hips, only a step away. All the while her smile, bore, her longing for more. Closer.
Her hair. The gentle toss captured. Locks flowing, bracing, emphasizing the glory of her face. The fullness of her lips. The perfection of her chin. Jutting forward. The fullness of her body. Jutting forward. Her desire. Jutting forward. The silent and feeble camouflage of her hips pressing in their soft slow flow playing a mere distraction to the desire dripping from her lips.
Half smile hidden in a momentary turn away. Movements fractured, frozen, in time. Tame transforms to wild as the pulse beats slowly, Move to move, moment to moment, transfixing only on the next. Reactions reflecting only the call of the primal. They touch.
Moments burn eternal in the heat of the kiss. The entry into paradise leaves both longing. The bucking press. The press of his hands against her face as his lips tasted her burning desire. The dance of electric bodies caught in the whirlwind. The ballet of contrasts, the hard against the soft, The burning agony combined with the delight of the ecstasy. As mouths continued to speak the language of love unspoken each to each, his hands sought out her soft, her hands lingered low.
The glancing blow, the grace, her rising reaction to his touch. The close of her eyes, the surrender.
In the moment they would live eternal.
He pulled her close. His hands ran along her waist, dipping down, His hands felt the muscular rise. He pulled her close. He felt the heat rising. He longed to be consumed just as she, she longed to consume him. The soft slide, inside, followed by the rise. He felt the heat rise in a simmering boil. His hand drew near, the subtle retreat, only to draw even closer. Her eyes closed as lips laden with desire, softly parted. Waiting only for the burning contact. So soft, so slow. The soft circiling followed by the gentle press. Again. Again. Again.
Stoking the consuming fire.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
In the growing shadows
Killers vs. Zombie Nation vs Bloody Beetroots - Somebody Warped Kernkraft 400
He found himself at a bar.
In the growing shadows he cursed himself. You see the bar was on the street, her street. He had taken caution to move his way there. A jut, a dogleg, a detour that elongated a simple trip into a crooked crusade. But it was done. He had to spend as little time on her street as he had to. True, the bar was much further down, but it was her street nonetheless. Inside, he looked at the guests. The simple divide of segregated tables filled with separate conversations. A microcosm or return to Jr. High School all over again. Girls with girls, boys with boys. Tongues flickered with the excitement of fashionable bravado of what could have been, might have been, should have... if only a coin had fallen the other way.
Yet the shadows grew. That is always where she found the most comfort, the partial hidden. Any slight sight of skin made her vulnerable. He laughed. He was little different. He preferrerd to hide in the plan open. The mask he wore was one of the rogue caviler. She could be the damsel in distress. She would find someone to save her, even if it wasn't him the fool paladin.
He laughed.
He had little time for that. He had to get her off his mind. This wouldn't have happened to Ulysses. Tempest tossed waves could never drown his vision. Not Ulysses. He would return home, he would break from his second act. He had to. The circle had to be complete. He laughed. A raise of the pint.
Time was linear. The shadows grew.
Well, he must have been a better man than he. The laugh while looking into the trace of carbonation surrounding the lip of the beer in his glass.
He had seen her on that street before. It was an accident. She was with the other. One of many. Walking, laughing, life was good... for her. She wore sunglasses so that she could cast a smile at anyone. Life is easier that way. He laughed as the pain hit his heart.
Inside, he felt it. That phantom pain. A name given to the pain in the arms or legs that had long been separated through amputation. You hear of the numb agony of World War One Vets. The sharp cry arising from a section of the body that is no longer there. The reality, it was nothing more than a ghost of something that would be forever gone. Rather than a limb, his pain rose from that section of his hart that he had given.
Growing shadows brought to his mind the temptation to drive by her house. For what purpose wasn't clear. She was disgusted by him. He had loved her so greatly he had killed her. Was it his fault? Was it hers? Neither. It was the passage of that irrevocable one known only as time. She had the freedom to change, as had he. So, she used her freedom, as had he. While she used hers to go one way, like a fool he had built a house of nothing more than cards that he told himself was so strong. So elegant. Till the winds came, causing it to crash.
The growing shadows at times released light.
The tumult had been too much. As his pyramid crumbled for the second time all he could do was watch aghast. It threw him back. The shock of returning to the neighborhood where you grew up to find that landmarks have been replaced by the new, the brash, which in a way makes them even more garish than they actually are. A piece of you was lost.
He forced his mind to change tracks. In the ash there was still so much. Traces of iron, thin as wire, continued to connect. Disjointed memories seemingly so insignificant numbed the sharpness of her cutting coup de gras. Driving, he doesn't remember where, or when. He only knew that it was at night. A sudden stop was called for. Like a protective tiger, his arm shot out immediately. Not for the pleasure of a stolen brush, no it was to protect her. To save her, if such a simple token could do anything. Why even a time or two, where there passion play had been stopped, in the flurry he had watched; he waited; to make sure that she had covered herself. So it was. She was gone. It was never him that wasn't good enough for her. It was she that wasn't....
He wouldn't say that. He couldn't. The dying cold of the glass signified that his drink was almost done. He wouldn't do a drive by. He would get off that street as soon as he could. He had to. Muddled thoughts only clouded his mind. The press of the door displayed his exit.
He knew his trip was over.
In the growing shadows he cursed, as he found the light.
He found himself at a bar.
In the growing shadows he cursed himself. You see the bar was on the street, her street. He had taken caution to move his way there. A jut, a dogleg, a detour that elongated a simple trip into a crooked crusade. But it was done. He had to spend as little time on her street as he had to. True, the bar was much further down, but it was her street nonetheless. Inside, he looked at the guests. The simple divide of segregated tables filled with separate conversations. A microcosm or return to Jr. High School all over again. Girls with girls, boys with boys. Tongues flickered with the excitement of fashionable bravado of what could have been, might have been, should have... if only a coin had fallen the other way.
Yet the shadows grew. That is always where she found the most comfort, the partial hidden. Any slight sight of skin made her vulnerable. He laughed. He was little different. He preferrerd to hide in the plan open. The mask he wore was one of the rogue caviler. She could be the damsel in distress. She would find someone to save her, even if it wasn't him the fool paladin.
He laughed.
He had little time for that. He had to get her off his mind. This wouldn't have happened to Ulysses. Tempest tossed waves could never drown his vision. Not Ulysses. He would return home, he would break from his second act. He had to. The circle had to be complete. He laughed. A raise of the pint.
Time was linear. The shadows grew.
Well, he must have been a better man than he. The laugh while looking into the trace of carbonation surrounding the lip of the beer in his glass.
He had seen her on that street before. It was an accident. She was with the other. One of many. Walking, laughing, life was good... for her. She wore sunglasses so that she could cast a smile at anyone. Life is easier that way. He laughed as the pain hit his heart.
Inside, he felt it. That phantom pain. A name given to the pain in the arms or legs that had long been separated through amputation. You hear of the numb agony of World War One Vets. The sharp cry arising from a section of the body that is no longer there. The reality, it was nothing more than a ghost of something that would be forever gone. Rather than a limb, his pain rose from that section of his hart that he had given.
Growing shadows brought to his mind the temptation to drive by her house. For what purpose wasn't clear. She was disgusted by him. He had loved her so greatly he had killed her. Was it his fault? Was it hers? Neither. It was the passage of that irrevocable one known only as time. She had the freedom to change, as had he. So, she used her freedom, as had he. While she used hers to go one way, like a fool he had built a house of nothing more than cards that he told himself was so strong. So elegant. Till the winds came, causing it to crash.
The growing shadows at times released light.
The tumult had been too much. As his pyramid crumbled for the second time all he could do was watch aghast. It threw him back. The shock of returning to the neighborhood where you grew up to find that landmarks have been replaced by the new, the brash, which in a way makes them even more garish than they actually are. A piece of you was lost.
He forced his mind to change tracks. In the ash there was still so much. Traces of iron, thin as wire, continued to connect. Disjointed memories seemingly so insignificant numbed the sharpness of her cutting coup de gras. Driving, he doesn't remember where, or when. He only knew that it was at night. A sudden stop was called for. Like a protective tiger, his arm shot out immediately. Not for the pleasure of a stolen brush, no it was to protect her. To save her, if such a simple token could do anything. Why even a time or two, where there passion play had been stopped, in the flurry he had watched; he waited; to make sure that she had covered herself. So it was. She was gone. It was never him that wasn't good enough for her. It was she that wasn't....
He wouldn't say that. He couldn't. The dying cold of the glass signified that his drink was almost done. He wouldn't do a drive by. He would get off that street as soon as he could. He had to. Muddled thoughts only clouded his mind. The press of the door displayed his exit.
He knew his trip was over.
In the growing shadows he cursed, as he found the light.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
The game is afoot
Moloko / Lady Gaga / HIM / Justin Timberlake - Join The Poker House (Robin Skouteris Mix)
The light had just begun to go down. The sun sought its rest in the loving embrace of the horizon. She welcomed her lover with open arms. Longing for the union of the two. Under the growing canopy of darkness, reality would repair. It would take a rest. In the space of sanctum, dreams would take flight.
So, she lay. Her supple recline extravagant. Her shirt split just so. The slight reveal. The beckon hidden of a reveal only so slightly. With a brush, only a breath , a tantalizing trace would cause the flimsy fabric camouflage to be swept away. Her eyes, hidden in dark beauty, burn. To conquer, to captivate, to comfort? She would reveal nothing.
Save the desire burning in her lips.Though pursed, they had pierced him. Her long locks were cast to the side. She presented herself to him, unabashed. All he had to do was touch. All he had to do was trace. She would wait. All the while her desire burned.
He began soft slow. The trace. The standing boundary of her glory, her hair, bordered the sides so elegantly. It was part of her seduction. His soft touch pulling it back was a part of his. All a part of the soft dance slow, that burned red hot. Time was not their ally. Scheduled moments of seclusion were rare and constantly fleeting. Yet the most would be made of their quicksilver moments. The world had its rules, but now that they were in the world of the two, they were the lords and ladies of all that transpired in their kingdom.
The lean towards was met by her rise against. Lips, longing for union melted one into the other. His hand traced along the edge of the fabric. The black yielded so readily to his draw along the periphery. Her arch, her intensity, showed her hunger. The travel under, the journey into the hidden he knew so well delighted both. His trace forever amazed by the burning yielding flesh of her soft that longed for the touch. The travel. From top to bottom. The passion of her kiss grew in their fury. Desire longed to become actual.
His kiss traced further down. Drawing passion as it journeyed down her jaw so strong. The slight sight of the lace holding darker circles below tantalized. In the seclusion of the sanctum they had formed she forgot the world, concentrated only on her desire for his trace to press, just a little furhter, to fall until it reached its goal.
He knew his kisses burned across her flesh so soft. He felt the electricity rise. Drawing power, drawing desire from her very pores. His soft kisses circled. The slow movement around points that rising to meet the embrace, the glancing touch, the teasing flick, his tounge softs press against her hard vaulting electric longing for his touch.
So he traveled. His touch pressing towards her heat, as her fingers felt for his prize. To feel, He loned to be enveloped, she loned to be consumed. The heat burnt fierce in anticipation of sliding friction in anticipation. The union so longed for would soon be met. The game is afoot.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Even angles have their wicked schemes
Skylar Gray ft. Eminem - Love the Way you Lie
The night grew long. He paused. The tip of the quill dipped into the ink. So black. So dark. He began to write. Whips of smoke was all that he had left. But if he wrote long enough, she would appear. She would... even if it was only an ethereal form. He knew that if fire was added to a trace of rising smoke, it would chase down and reignite... at least in his mind. So he would write. She would appear.
A faint apparition to be sure. Nothing more than a shadow really. His writing would increase in speed. Her form slowly became more solid. The gleam in her eye would light. How he longed to reach to her. To only touch. Longing to hear the sing song of her laughter... but really wanting her only to say something... anything. The moment he stopped writing, she would slowly fade. Even if he returned to his furious pace, she would disappear. A fools game.
Perhaps he was wrong. In his writing. Perhaps he wrote only what he wanted to see. He wouldn't speak of the turmoil. Should he tell of the the drunken answers, should he tell of the shock of her way of concluding the conversations "Gotta Motor." Sounds cute, sounds clever, that is until you watch Heathers and realize that this was the way that all of the Heathers would conclude their conversations.
Perhaps it was too much. Maybe he was the fool. People change. Some grow deeper. Some shrink. It all has to do with the battles they face. As we grow life has a way of crushing. If we accept it, we fit in. A land where everyone likes us... but ourselves. If you fall outside the status quo, you have two simple choices: you become a victim or you become an outlaw. Victims are easy as they are pliable. They deserve our pity. Outlaws on the other hand demand our recognition. Though ostracized, they are the ones that advance society. They are the ones who really care. They are the ones who are fierce in purpose, savage in passion. They can stand being unloved, for their dreams they persevere. They don't quit. But revolutions are costly. So costly. If he had to walk alone, he was used to it.
Perhaps, he thought, she had become like a hollow Chocolate Easter bunny, that looked so good in the box, as soon as he took a bite, it would crack into a hollow, revealing the dream was nothing more than a facade. All she had to do was say "hello". Something so simple... yet he knew she wouldn't. But until then, he would write with his eyes closed. She would forever hold the last word. And if she didn't speak again, he would hold her last seven words tightly to his heart.
The night grew long. He paused. The tip of the quill dipped into the ink. So black. So dark. He began to write. Whips of smoke was all that he had left. But if he wrote long enough, she would appear. She would... even if it was only an ethereal form. He knew that if fire was added to a trace of rising smoke, it would chase down and reignite... at least in his mind. So he would write. She would appear.
A faint apparition to be sure. Nothing more than a shadow really. His writing would increase in speed. Her form slowly became more solid. The gleam in her eye would light. How he longed to reach to her. To only touch. Longing to hear the sing song of her laughter... but really wanting her only to say something... anything. The moment he stopped writing, she would slowly fade. Even if he returned to his furious pace, she would disappear. A fools game.
Perhaps he was wrong. In his writing. Perhaps he wrote only what he wanted to see. He wouldn't speak of the turmoil. Should he tell of the the drunken answers, should he tell of the shock of her way of concluding the conversations "Gotta Motor." Sounds cute, sounds clever, that is until you watch Heathers and realize that this was the way that all of the Heathers would conclude their conversations.
Perhaps it was too much. Maybe he was the fool. People change. Some grow deeper. Some shrink. It all has to do with the battles they face. As we grow life has a way of crushing. If we accept it, we fit in. A land where everyone likes us... but ourselves. If you fall outside the status quo, you have two simple choices: you become a victim or you become an outlaw. Victims are easy as they are pliable. They deserve our pity. Outlaws on the other hand demand our recognition. Though ostracized, they are the ones that advance society. They are the ones who really care. They are the ones who are fierce in purpose, savage in passion. They can stand being unloved, for their dreams they persevere. They don't quit. But revolutions are costly. So costly. If he had to walk alone, he was used to it.
Perhaps, he thought, she had become like a hollow Chocolate Easter bunny, that looked so good in the box, as soon as he took a bite, it would crack into a hollow, revealing the dream was nothing more than a facade. All she had to do was say "hello". Something so simple... yet he knew she wouldn't. But until then, he would write with his eyes closed. She would forever hold the last word. And if she didn't speak again, he would hold her last seven words tightly to his heart.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Diffuse haze
Donna Summer I feel love (maxi drive remix)
In the diffuse haze of light softened by its pass through the curtain was where she lay. Her lithe form lay; waiting, smiling, beckoning. His soft kiss traveling trace landed in soft slight teases across her skin. With each electric brush, each contact gently stoked her fire. The gentle breath of seduction rose. The unconscious longing of her hips drunken rise followed by the rhythmic recoil proved that she was so heated, so soft, so ready.
He knew there was no need to rush. Every contact was savored. One of her hands drew along her skin, longing to greet him, to guide him. Her other hand tried to dissipate the tension of her building want by clenching into a tightening and releasing grip. Her head arched. The slow draw, the soft bite of her lip as she turned her head to the side spoke of her desire. As she longed for his rise to meet the apex, she surrendered herself to the delight of anticipation.
Soft, slow, sure, he rose. The electric touch of his kiss met her rising heat. Hands that had pressed to guide slowly caressed his head. It measured movements tenuiously holding her desire, she drew him higher. His kisses, tasting skin so soft, so sweet were joined by his own hands pulling her tight. Soft movements under, over, and across, pulled her closer. So close. All the while the undertow carried the desire of the union of the two, for separated hearts to beat in union. The divided bodies, separated hearts would fuse into one. All it would take was the moment more of a kiss lost in the heat of a diffuse haze.
In the diffuse haze of light softened by its pass through the curtain was where she lay. Her lithe form lay; waiting, smiling, beckoning. His soft kiss traveling trace landed in soft slight teases across her skin. With each electric brush, each contact gently stoked her fire. The gentle breath of seduction rose. The unconscious longing of her hips drunken rise followed by the rhythmic recoil proved that she was so heated, so soft, so ready.
He knew there was no need to rush. Every contact was savored. One of her hands drew along her skin, longing to greet him, to guide him. Her other hand tried to dissipate the tension of her building want by clenching into a tightening and releasing grip. Her head arched. The slow draw, the soft bite of her lip as she turned her head to the side spoke of her desire. As she longed for his rise to meet the apex, she surrendered herself to the delight of anticipation.
Soft, slow, sure, he rose. The electric touch of his kiss met her rising heat. Hands that had pressed to guide slowly caressed his head. It measured movements tenuiously holding her desire, she drew him higher. His kisses, tasting skin so soft, so sweet were joined by his own hands pulling her tight. Soft movements under, over, and across, pulled her closer. So close. All the while the undertow carried the desire of the union of the two, for separated hearts to beat in union. The divided bodies, separated hearts would fuse into one. All it would take was the moment more of a kiss lost in the heat of a diffuse haze.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
99 victorious
Lorde: Green Light
She won you know. Her and her 99 reasons emerged victorious.
The 99 reasons? Those ones that tell you that it is all wrong. Ghastly white arms that try to draw you back into the darkness. He was a fool. He held on to the one. The one that tells you to stay. That tells you to battle all that was for nothing more than a simple ray of light. He held so fast. Held quick. The one reason that all is refused and forced him to believe in her. In them. In what they had... or what he thought.
It made little difference. He would degrade himself. He would wait until the masquerade was over. He saw her ask the others. Her slow dance of seduction surrounding. It would pass. He believed so hard. A faith so strong he thought that it could change her reality. So blinding. It changed his reality. So believing. So simple in faith. Relying on merely the breath of a vapor of the rising smoke in a love that had been forced into submission, she inspired such flame.
She would emerge from her facade. She had to. So it was. She did you know. He had been a fool wandering, emptying, devoid of all pretense, a soft approach wanting. He stood, and saw beyond the mutilations that she did to her body. With each touch, each inclusion that made her approach closer to the perfect that she not only imagined, but also that was forced upon her
Then she, well, she delivered the seven words. Her penultimate massage. In their simplicity, spoke the truth... irregardless how brutal, had been delivered. In eloquent simplicity she decimated anything he had written. In searing speech she revealed her reality. Anytime he was tempted to reflect the simple sentence would remind him of the truth. What was her verdict? She gave him the green light.
Not the green light to stay, but to go. To travel far, far away. So simple. Yet... so necessary. Her seven words showed that she was willing to accepted the banality of her reality. The happiness she discovered with each false promise, the joy at being the second best. The fulfillment she found in the hollow. A trek that his truth could never abide. She would remain, she would continue. But any and how his mind, in its search for light might try to seek her out, but then he would remember her seven words. The truth he never wanted to face would become readily apparent, she was content. Even if it was without him... she was content.
He could reflect. He could remember. But what was, simply was. She will loose herself to lesser men, expendable men, if only for the fact that they were lesser men and expendable men. A blow is the same as a kiss... it means nothing. A know is the same as a kiss... it means nothing... and with me... it would have meant something. She would live forever, or die trying.
Thanks for your seven words of simplicity.
Always.
She won you know. Her and her 99 reasons emerged victorious.
The 99 reasons? Those ones that tell you that it is all wrong. Ghastly white arms that try to draw you back into the darkness. He was a fool. He held on to the one. The one that tells you to stay. That tells you to battle all that was for nothing more than a simple ray of light. He held so fast. Held quick. The one reason that all is refused and forced him to believe in her. In them. In what they had... or what he thought.
It made little difference. He would degrade himself. He would wait until the masquerade was over. He saw her ask the others. Her slow dance of seduction surrounding. It would pass. He believed so hard. A faith so strong he thought that it could change her reality. So blinding. It changed his reality. So believing. So simple in faith. Relying on merely the breath of a vapor of the rising smoke in a love that had been forced into submission, she inspired such flame.
She would emerge from her facade. She had to. So it was. She did you know. He had been a fool wandering, emptying, devoid of all pretense, a soft approach wanting. He stood, and saw beyond the mutilations that she did to her body. With each touch, each inclusion that made her approach closer to the perfect that she not only imagined, but also that was forced upon her
Then she, well, she delivered the seven words. Her penultimate massage. In their simplicity, spoke the truth... irregardless how brutal, had been delivered. In eloquent simplicity she decimated anything he had written. In searing speech she revealed her reality. Anytime he was tempted to reflect the simple sentence would remind him of the truth. What was her verdict? She gave him the green light.
Not the green light to stay, but to go. To travel far, far away. So simple. Yet... so necessary. Her seven words showed that she was willing to accepted the banality of her reality. The happiness she discovered with each false promise, the joy at being the second best. The fulfillment she found in the hollow. A trek that his truth could never abide. She would remain, she would continue. But any and how his mind, in its search for light might try to seek her out, but then he would remember her seven words. The truth he never wanted to face would become readily apparent, she was content. Even if it was without him... she was content.
He could reflect. He could remember. But what was, simply was. She will loose herself to lesser men, expendable men, if only for the fact that they were lesser men and expendable men. A blow is the same as a kiss... it means nothing. A know is the same as a kiss... it means nothing... and with me... it would have meant something. She would live forever, or die trying.
Thanks for your seven words of simplicity.
Always.
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