Laday Gaga/Bang La Decks / Ken Roll - THE UTOPIAN AURA
She tried. Tried to hide the passion she longed to hear. The touch. The dwell. His heated lips rising to hers. She longed to hear the justification of her desire: burning. Feeling the return of his passion smoldering trace across her lips laden with desire.
The feel of his desire burning trace along his the glancing touch, the furtive passion burning. The slow rise in his grip from her hips across the soft heat rising from her stomach so tight. Pressing up, towards, his rise. The glance, the burn, the desperation fulfilled from his touch across the swell of skin longing too long to feel his press.
Her soft heat rising. His hard reply pressing. Her lips so full, so burning, waiting to be filled by the touch of him against her. Her passion inflamed by the circling kisses upon her neck. Burning to the touch. The slow advance. His lingering around the bottom of her neck. Drawing, inflaming, building the desire for touch along her skin. His hands gentle caress under, the pulling draw, around the colored ring, the trace across the gentle texture rising to his touch. Waiting for his advance soft sure in circling draw. Ever closer, ever just a seeming unbearable absence from: they connection desired. The circling press towards the center as his kiss rose.
His hand meanwhile slid down. The grab across. The fullness pressed against him. The grab, the draw, the pull for the press. He felt the pull of her heat. Her longing to engulf him. To surround him as the bodies joined. The slight circling of her his. Her invitation slight, as her smoldering grew into an inferno. Her subconscious invitation. Join in the primitive dance primordial.
The contact of lips to lips she felt undoubted the response of his desire. How it longed to burn in her. In the language unspoken his words were heard loudest of all. The rise of his touch, teasing, pleasing her tender points rising of her own. Standing firm to feel each glance, each brush that swept, crossing, drawing, across her zone. Forbidden, in its limits to others, but not to him; never. Sparks excitedly lept from his fingertips to the tips of her desire
All the while his kisses left her mouth and began a further trace down. Though her eyes were closed, she leaned forward into each and every advance made. They began with the parting at the front. His hands left her for only a moment to part the mask, the snaps of fabric that hid her beauty. She had used it to protect herself from the shadowmen, but now she longed to reveal herself to him.
The glory of her burning revealed itself, soft, to slow to his kisses burning. As his mouth began its slow advance she felt the slow press of his burning desire rise across hier inner thigh. Rising. As his circling kisses drew closer, ever closer. In his gentle puck, his soft engulfing surrounding tug and pull, she burned with desire.
A desire reflected in his rise, ever advancing, ever retreating, ever waiting. Till, the moment came; she felt his touch rise along her thigh. Ever higher, ever rising the heat of her flame as it grew, as it drew, closer to her epicenter. The source, the target, that could only be quenced in the touch, the taste, the real. The soft bucking of her hips against his rise. Beckoning, waiting, always for the burn to be destroyed in the consuming heat of him. Till then, she would wait, or... at least she tried.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Little more than a shadow
Lady Gaga/Swedish House Mafia/Eurythmics - Marry the word
The words don't come easy. They fight me. I fight them. What you see is little more than a compromise between our wills. The heart, and the head. They battle. The fight is for nothing... save everything. So it goes. The necromancers dance with lifeless bones yellow with age. My mind wanders back to F. Scott.
What did he do with his Zelda? When they first raged, it was funny. Then she questioned "What the hell are you doing here?" Years later, there was a change. Now it simply was "What the fuck are you doing here?" Almost the same I suppose. But not quite. Zelda had matured. That much could be sure. If not in mind, then certainly in madness. Did F. Scott see? Were the folds lifted for a moment? Did he see the passage of time she could not stop? Thinning hair, rising blemishes in the skin, the increased difficulty she found in slowing the advance of time. Like so much else of her, it could be repaired, covered. All it would take is time.
But more importantly did he see the caustic burn of her beauty? Like a diminutive poison it had sapped beneath her skin. Corroding, disposing anything and everything it touched with its acrid gangrenous touch. So it worked, so it sank, until its dark fingers touched and corroded her soul. Oh F. Scott, what ever will you do?
Some say she kept a bevy of boys in her stables. In that hay floored hell, burning touches that were supposed to give life instead sapped it. In her pulling away only a collapsing shadow remained. Poor fools. Zelda, she was always a hairs breath away from becoming Daisy. Pleading for salvation from her Tom desperate to find her Ray that somewhere in her younger days she abandoned. Sadly, it, like so much else, was gone forever.
It was lucky she was beautiful. In cocktail conversations Zelda desperately tried so hard to be witty, to sound intelligent. Occasionally however, she might stammer. But her beauty, even if she had learned to loathe it, would buy her forgiveness. The world is all too ready to believe that beauty somehow is equal to goodness. They would turn a blind eye as Zelda continued to flirt with her Tom, or others that F.Scott didn't care to share. What would that solve? The ones he knew were the dalliance with Michelangelo. Or furtive stolen whispers shared with P.K. All else were only whispers and logic. Sadly though, she never realized that her beauty was little more than a shadow. A faded shadow she longed to make real.
Perhaps that's why as night grew heavy his hand would grasp his glass a little tighter. Like a Bettie Davis or even a Melanie Griffith, Zelda clung to hear beauty even if it cost everything else. As long as Vaseline could be put on the lens, combined with a focus so precious and soft, the wrinkles wouldn't look so deep. The facade could be maintained while it slowly ate away at her essence. As long as she could hear the faded cries of approval, she could blot out the truth. Bless you Zelda. Bless you F. Scott.
The words don't come easy. They fight me. I fight them. What you see is little more than a compromise between our wills. The heart, and the head. They battle. The fight is for nothing... save everything. So it goes. The necromancers dance with lifeless bones yellow with age. My mind wanders back to F. Scott.
What did he do with his Zelda? When they first raged, it was funny. Then she questioned "What the hell are you doing here?" Years later, there was a change. Now it simply was "What the fuck are you doing here?" Almost the same I suppose. But not quite. Zelda had matured. That much could be sure. If not in mind, then certainly in madness. Did F. Scott see? Were the folds lifted for a moment? Did he see the passage of time she could not stop? Thinning hair, rising blemishes in the skin, the increased difficulty she found in slowing the advance of time. Like so much else of her, it could be repaired, covered. All it would take is time.
But more importantly did he see the caustic burn of her beauty? Like a diminutive poison it had sapped beneath her skin. Corroding, disposing anything and everything it touched with its acrid gangrenous touch. So it worked, so it sank, until its dark fingers touched and corroded her soul. Oh F. Scott, what ever will you do?
Some say she kept a bevy of boys in her stables. In that hay floored hell, burning touches that were supposed to give life instead sapped it. In her pulling away only a collapsing shadow remained. Poor fools. Zelda, she was always a hairs breath away from becoming Daisy. Pleading for salvation from her Tom desperate to find her Ray that somewhere in her younger days she abandoned. Sadly, it, like so much else, was gone forever.
It was lucky she was beautiful. In cocktail conversations Zelda desperately tried so hard to be witty, to sound intelligent. Occasionally however, she might stammer. But her beauty, even if she had learned to loathe it, would buy her forgiveness. The world is all too ready to believe that beauty somehow is equal to goodness. They would turn a blind eye as Zelda continued to flirt with her Tom, or others that F.Scott didn't care to share. What would that solve? The ones he knew were the dalliance with Michelangelo. Or furtive stolen whispers shared with P.K. All else were only whispers and logic. Sadly though, she never realized that her beauty was little more than a shadow. A faded shadow she longed to make real.
Perhaps that's why as night grew heavy his hand would grasp his glass a little tighter. Like a Bettie Davis or even a Melanie Griffith, Zelda clung to hear beauty even if it cost everything else. As long as Vaseline could be put on the lens, combined with a focus so precious and soft, the wrinkles wouldn't look so deep. The facade could be maintained while it slowly ate away at her essence. As long as she could hear the faded cries of approval, she could blot out the truth. Bless you Zelda. Bless you F. Scott.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Never met a stranger
Cat Stevens - The Wind (Host Bodies Remix)
She was a blue blur. Light pirouettes filled her afternoon as she danced from table to table in her blue dress. Red flowers provided points along her trim. She had with her a boundless companion. She was at a precious age. It could have been eight. It could have been nine. She was caught in that lovely first time where we reach a the precipice: a primary point of becoming. The one she wanted to become she had decided was one that frolicked.
Her companion was also boundless. He was also eight, or nine. Well in his case it was in months. He was a beige Golden retriever. Huge paws and a gargantuan head that his body had yet to grow into. Just like his partner: the world was his oyster. Curious he pounced from table to table. With this girl that was fine. It allowed her to meet. To introduce herself. The world would know her... she had decided, and the world would know her. Each table cooed at this cute drop of heaven. So innocent, so happy. They would laugh as the leash of the puppy tied itself around legs of chairs... of people. It didn't matter. The dog was just as desperate in its desire to explore... to know. The girl was happy for it allowed her to meet more people. She had already decided that she had never met a stranger. All loved her and she loved all. A tip of the glass to her.
Her Mom watched out of the corner of her eye. She knew her daughter was in a safe place. Yet, being a Mom she stopped her conversation after a phrase or two, for just a glance. All she wanted was to make eye contact. To assure that her vagabond was safe. That was until her daughters boisterous laughter became unstoppable. The tiny clarion call to life reached all on the patio.
She eventually found her way out to me... or maybe it was her dog. He sniffed around my feet while she merely smiled. I said "Hello." This apparently was tremendously funny as she leaned back her head and laughed furiously. The puppy, being a puppy, twisted himself into a problem. I grabbed the leash lightly and told her to get to the other side and guide the puppy back. Without concern she skipped to aid the canine who in actuality was just fine.
As she walked to the next table, I hoped that she would always remain fine. Sometimes life, as dreams, as people, is all too tender. I hope she never finds a stranger that wants to do her harm. To take her to places she doesn't want to go. A cloister that unleashes monsters. A place that dims the sun she carries by teaching her heart to know fear. May she continue to never meet a stranger.
She was a blue blur. Light pirouettes filled her afternoon as she danced from table to table in her blue dress. Red flowers provided points along her trim. She had with her a boundless companion. She was at a precious age. It could have been eight. It could have been nine. She was caught in that lovely first time where we reach a the precipice: a primary point of becoming. The one she wanted to become she had decided was one that frolicked.
Her companion was also boundless. He was also eight, or nine. Well in his case it was in months. He was a beige Golden retriever. Huge paws and a gargantuan head that his body had yet to grow into. Just like his partner: the world was his oyster. Curious he pounced from table to table. With this girl that was fine. It allowed her to meet. To introduce herself. The world would know her... she had decided, and the world would know her. Each table cooed at this cute drop of heaven. So innocent, so happy. They would laugh as the leash of the puppy tied itself around legs of chairs... of people. It didn't matter. The dog was just as desperate in its desire to explore... to know. The girl was happy for it allowed her to meet more people. She had already decided that she had never met a stranger. All loved her and she loved all. A tip of the glass to her.
Her Mom watched out of the corner of her eye. She knew her daughter was in a safe place. Yet, being a Mom she stopped her conversation after a phrase or two, for just a glance. All she wanted was to make eye contact. To assure that her vagabond was safe. That was until her daughters boisterous laughter became unstoppable. The tiny clarion call to life reached all on the patio.
She eventually found her way out to me... or maybe it was her dog. He sniffed around my feet while she merely smiled. I said "Hello." This apparently was tremendously funny as she leaned back her head and laughed furiously. The puppy, being a puppy, twisted himself into a problem. I grabbed the leash lightly and told her to get to the other side and guide the puppy back. Without concern she skipped to aid the canine who in actuality was just fine.
As she walked to the next table, I hoped that she would always remain fine. Sometimes life, as dreams, as people, is all too tender. I hope she never finds a stranger that wants to do her harm. To take her to places she doesn't want to go. A cloister that unleashes monsters. A place that dims the sun she carries by teaching her heart to know fear. May she continue to never meet a stranger.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Anything to distract
Eurythmics-sexcrime (extended mix 1984)
Words. She always thought they came easy. In a society, where the raw is no longer eloquent. When society runs from the real. Heretics are the only ones who speak the truth. Jesters grow silent in the corner. His words were practiced... they were sharp. Just as she. When... she walked.
The undulating, beckoning movement of her hips. One leg, elegantly placed so light, in front of the other. A diminutive dance as her hair falling from her shoulders softly shook. Movements disciplined she tried to maintain in profile. Making sure he saw a glance. Just a sight. A hint of tthe full, supple side of her thigh carefully hidden under the dancing of her skirt. Her stocking legs merely provided a hint of the hidden treasure beneath. She knew that lines meant to be invisble would be seen.., if he only looked. He would see.
Walking behind, he was able to capture a glimpse; He was looking, but he had to make it seem as if he wasn't. The savage must be contained, captured, behind a smile. Her beauty, her heat, was radiating. She wanted to feel. To touch, to be touched. Her finger delicately drew along the spine of a book, where the two would speak of Geiger... Monet... Matisse... Dalai... any thing to distract, to divert desire. Distract from the tiny dance of courtship. At each pause, each break, he drew closer to his desert rose. His Jordan flowing. Longing to bask in her waters so warm, to be surrounded.
So it was. She moved. To gaze at old magazines. To look at Look. Ads filled with art-deco. The lines so firm, the bending shapes soft curvature revealing always the artst's trace. His touch. Softly lovingly forming each line. Each curvature caressed to be drawn into full points growing frim, growing full, till the sharp points drew themselves full in expectation of being seen, of having the fingers trace.
She grabbed a magazine, just as suddenly as she sat. In the brief moment of passing, he saw what she longed for him to see. The flash of white. The stripes going from top to bottom, or bottom to top. He didn't know. He didn't care. The soft pass of her settling, the diminutive exposure as she gained her compose. The draw, the undertow, the pull towards her. That which she had so longed for. The real hidden behind the facade. Fulfillment of the unquenched burning, that had smoldered so long. She felt his hand, the gracing touch that could almost be forgiven as accidental, become more focused and directed in its elevation. She turned away if only for a moment. She knew she could not maintain the game much longer. With each glance she became intoxicated to his touch.
It was dark outside. Not that that mattered. She had already lost herself. The tremble in her lips longed to capture the fire from his. She felt the hardness of his body press against her. She pushed forward, trying to melt into him with the fevered grip of the lovers passion. If they would burn it would be glorious.
Lips spoke forbidden truths each to each in a language that would only be defamed, desecrated in an attmpt to translate. The would meld. He was determined. He pressed her into him. Drawing her body ever closer to him. His press along the gentle, supple, arrogant curve. His trace drawing her body further into life. A singing truth shouting to a dead fast wold pleasures they had long forgotten. The sacredness, the burning heat, that too many had forgotten. The melding behind the eyes too heavy with desire to remain fully open. Perhaps only seeing a little of a dying world, or only allowed a glimpse of a sacred truth, the world has too long forgotten. His draw. Her press. A lover's bite on a supine neck. As her head arched skyward longing to enter the glory; to beat the confines of a weary world.
Words. She always thought they came easy. In a society, where the raw is no longer eloquent. When society runs from the real. Heretics are the only ones who speak the truth. Jesters grow silent in the corner. His words were practiced... they were sharp. Just as she. When... she walked.
The undulating, beckoning movement of her hips. One leg, elegantly placed so light, in front of the other. A diminutive dance as her hair falling from her shoulders softly shook. Movements disciplined she tried to maintain in profile. Making sure he saw a glance. Just a sight. A hint of tthe full, supple side of her thigh carefully hidden under the dancing of her skirt. Her stocking legs merely provided a hint of the hidden treasure beneath. She knew that lines meant to be invisble would be seen.., if he only looked. He would see.
Walking behind, he was able to capture a glimpse; He was looking, but he had to make it seem as if he wasn't. The savage must be contained, captured, behind a smile. Her beauty, her heat, was radiating. She wanted to feel. To touch, to be touched. Her finger delicately drew along the spine of a book, where the two would speak of Geiger... Monet... Matisse... Dalai... any thing to distract, to divert desire. Distract from the tiny dance of courtship. At each pause, each break, he drew closer to his desert rose. His Jordan flowing. Longing to bask in her waters so warm, to be surrounded.
So it was. She moved. To gaze at old magazines. To look at Look. Ads filled with art-deco. The lines so firm, the bending shapes soft curvature revealing always the artst's trace. His touch. Softly lovingly forming each line. Each curvature caressed to be drawn into full points growing frim, growing full, till the sharp points drew themselves full in expectation of being seen, of having the fingers trace.
She grabbed a magazine, just as suddenly as she sat. In the brief moment of passing, he saw what she longed for him to see. The flash of white. The stripes going from top to bottom, or bottom to top. He didn't know. He didn't care. The soft pass of her settling, the diminutive exposure as she gained her compose. The draw, the undertow, the pull towards her. That which she had so longed for. The real hidden behind the facade. Fulfillment of the unquenched burning, that had smoldered so long. She felt his hand, the gracing touch that could almost be forgiven as accidental, become more focused and directed in its elevation. She turned away if only for a moment. She knew she could not maintain the game much longer. With each glance she became intoxicated to his touch.
It was dark outside. Not that that mattered. She had already lost herself. The tremble in her lips longed to capture the fire from his. She felt the hardness of his body press against her. She pushed forward, trying to melt into him with the fevered grip of the lovers passion. If they would burn it would be glorious.
Lips spoke forbidden truths each to each in a language that would only be defamed, desecrated in an attmpt to translate. The would meld. He was determined. He pressed her into him. Drawing her body ever closer to him. His press along the gentle, supple, arrogant curve. His trace drawing her body further into life. A singing truth shouting to a dead fast wold pleasures they had long forgotten. The sacredness, the burning heat, that too many had forgotten. The melding behind the eyes too heavy with desire to remain fully open. Perhaps only seeing a little of a dying world, or only allowed a glimpse of a sacred truth, the world has too long forgotten. His draw. Her press. A lover's bite on a supine neck. As her head arched skyward longing to enter the glory; to beat the confines of a weary world.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
At least she had a dog
Dave Grohl - Times Like these
At least she had a dog.
Remember that. Well... that... and that none can ever take away the dance you danced. They will forever be full of passion. Though frozen, it's there. Every tragedy turns into a comedy given enough time. And that and all fairy tales will... do... and must I suppose... finally come to an end.
He knew that. The whole part about her having a dog. If he knew anything, he knew that. From the tiny scratches of the nails dissipating down a hidden hallway it had gone to notify, to proclaim of the arrival of one hidden behind a door.
The meeting, he thought. It didn't have to be... but it did. He had been prepared. He picked a card, then another, then... the final one he knew it would be. It was a pretty card. It was simple. But what to write? This was the question he had to face.
His words would be short. Inspired by Kerouac he knew "In the end I will find the right words, and they will be simple." They would be short. They would be simple. They would be pure. Reduce what he knew to what he knew. A return to nothing more than the essence. "Continue to chase the horizon in your new year" he wrote. Then came the kicker... "Thank you for your friendship. Always," and then he signed his name. He looked at . Examined this writing. Though he had been so careful, forever afraid that his chicken scratch might reflect badly. It was neat. It would suffice. So it would be.
The dog had disappeared. He did not have much time. He placed the card in the mailbox. Should he stay?
He paused.
The door opened. She was smiling. Her voice caught in the sing-song of contentment. Although oil was low, stock prices were high... so her smile made sense. His Daisy was dressed in the Haute Culture of a Robe and pajamas. As it was almost 11 o'clock, this I suppose was perfectly normal attire... at least in her world. Her face, perhaps was punctuated by cold cream. Her eyes were either covered with a kind of safety glass or perhaps due to a hidden betrayer carried in her genes, she could be wearing glasses now. Her hair was natural, and she was smiling.
At least she was until she recognized it was him.
Filled with fury, she screeched out. Her final words were classic. While before, her silence had left questions it was now the now. Her words, her actions, revealed her heart. The careful counting of his words were lost as she ripped the tiny token in half. Though the romantic in him would love to cling to the prior moments of pause, the spaces in between, he knew that all along he had been nothing, At least to her. To grab hold of the future, you have to let go of the past. So it goes.
In the cold dark he hoped she would remember that she had won. To that victory she should cling. If she even bothered to recall. Bless you Daisy.
But none can ever take away the dance they had danced.
That... and at least she had a dog.
At least she had a dog.
Remember that. Well... that... and that none can ever take away the dance you danced. They will forever be full of passion. Though frozen, it's there. Every tragedy turns into a comedy given enough time. And that and all fairy tales will... do... and must I suppose... finally come to an end.
He knew that. The whole part about her having a dog. If he knew anything, he knew that. From the tiny scratches of the nails dissipating down a hidden hallway it had gone to notify, to proclaim of the arrival of one hidden behind a door.
The meeting, he thought. It didn't have to be... but it did. He had been prepared. He picked a card, then another, then... the final one he knew it would be. It was a pretty card. It was simple. But what to write? This was the question he had to face.
His words would be short. Inspired by Kerouac he knew "In the end I will find the right words, and they will be simple." They would be short. They would be simple. They would be pure. Reduce what he knew to what he knew. A return to nothing more than the essence. "Continue to chase the horizon in your new year" he wrote. Then came the kicker... "Thank you for your friendship. Always," and then he signed his name. He looked at . Examined this writing. Though he had been so careful, forever afraid that his chicken scratch might reflect badly. It was neat. It would suffice. So it would be.
The dog had disappeared. He did not have much time. He placed the card in the mailbox. Should he stay?
He paused.
The door opened. She was smiling. Her voice caught in the sing-song of contentment. Although oil was low, stock prices were high... so her smile made sense. His Daisy was dressed in the Haute Culture of a Robe and pajamas. As it was almost 11 o'clock, this I suppose was perfectly normal attire... at least in her world. Her face, perhaps was punctuated by cold cream. Her eyes were either covered with a kind of safety glass or perhaps due to a hidden betrayer carried in her genes, she could be wearing glasses now. Her hair was natural, and she was smiling.
At least she was until she recognized it was him.
Filled with fury, she screeched out. Her final words were classic. While before, her silence had left questions it was now the now. Her words, her actions, revealed her heart. The careful counting of his words were lost as she ripped the tiny token in half. Though the romantic in him would love to cling to the prior moments of pause, the spaces in between, he knew that all along he had been nothing, At least to her. To grab hold of the future, you have to let go of the past. So it goes.
In the cold dark he hoped she would remember that she had won. To that victory she should cling. If she even bothered to recall. Bless you Daisy.
But none can ever take away the dance they had danced.
That... and at least she had a dog.
Monday, January 16, 2017
A sacred second
It was a few days ago. I was back at that intersection. I had to go downtown, cover a story. My mind was on that. Or at least it was supposed to be. The nearby street was too busy so I thought I will travel down another street and take that. True, I would be going close to where I should not, but I would not think of that. No I had a purpose to distract me. Well maybe that is what I could tell myself. That is until I came to the intersection.
Getting ready to take a right, traffic held me up. I looked into the oncoming traffic, and there she was. My first reaction was shock. She didn't notice me. A second stare, and I saw that... well... maybe it wasn't her. Regardless, it made me think of her. Of her friendship. Fast and furious. Lives lived in laughter. Memories of playing the joke of telling her I could make her hand smell like strawberry. Mad chases. Her taking me to dance... HONK! The cars behind me brought me back. The right lane was clear. I had to go. But in that flash of the sacred second of memory, I smiled.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
A second sacred
New Order - Confusion (Pump panel remix)
The passion had danced. In building waves they crashed onto the shore. Energy crescendo, followed by a moment of retreat, only to return more intense the frenzied hunger of the last hour had carried. The walls served as silent witness to the play. In the aftermath, the tussled compliance of the bed displayed even its exhausted willingness.
But now, she stood to the side. Her skin shone despite distraction. It radiated the latent longing to remain though she would have to leave. Her mind tormented as she had to go all the while her heart pressed for pause. In looking at her, he too, was desperate for her to stay. She was more beautiful than she would ever know. Even if she was looking away. Caught in the crisis of a looming deadline. He knew. He didn't like it, but he knew.
In the battle of brain over body, his primal cry was defining. He decided to form his own protest. If she couldn't stay he would absorb all that was her. If she had to rush, he was determined to savor every moment... every movement... every... second. But had the waves ceased or were they only building to a epic Tsunami? A question for each passing, each building, second.
She was in the middle of a reluctant recession. She had already donned the stylish black shirt. She was preoccupied. Her mind caught in the contrast. She longed to stay, but she had to go... she had to. The little death took a small silent portion of her mind. She had to focus. She had to get ready.
But he, he could see. He observed in silent wonder. The fabric clung and caressed her supple and delicate form. The textured fabric stood in stark contrast to the smoothness of her neck. Her perfectly formed almost arrogant breasts jutted proudly forth She pulling up the matching black shorts. The air thickened by the presence of passions building between the two. Her desperate longing to stay was the whispering call of the siren in her mind. His desire stalked like a puma waiting for the moment. The second. The time to strike. His eyes focused. The time would arrive soon, he knew.
The perfect time arrived when she had her hands occupied. They were busy placing the sharp silver accent of the earring into her ear. This is when his stalk began the slow advance. In a movement slow but strong he began to stoke along her inner thigh. He could see the desire build in her eyes. Her movements to attach the pin to the earring slowed. His hand steady, intent, rose. Her eyelids grew heavy with desire. His hand passed the cuff of her shorts. Higher and higher. Her eyes closed. Her hands froze while his hands rose, higher and higher.
Standing slowly he moved behind her. One hand continued its rise. His other hand moved towards her stomach. While her hands remained frozen, her eyes remained closed focusing on the desire building in her soul. Her only movement was to press her body back and lean into his advance. His hand traced along the periphery. Back and forth, The slow advance followed by the retreat. The Tsunami was building. His other hand circled around her trembling stomach feeling her craven yearning wanting, waiting, desperate for release.
Yet he continued the trace. The build. Until...
In a turning lean, she revealed her consuming desire. Passions primal erupted, with a silken slide the Rubicon was crossed. Passion fell in an engulfing deluge as the crest of primal waves of passion fell over the two. In a response to the primitive the two forgot all save the other. Eden would be reclaimed, if only for a moment. In this moment were time was supposed to be all, the two would hold off time, if only to spare another second in the sacred.
The passion had danced. In building waves they crashed onto the shore. Energy crescendo, followed by a moment of retreat, only to return more intense the frenzied hunger of the last hour had carried. The walls served as silent witness to the play. In the aftermath, the tussled compliance of the bed displayed even its exhausted willingness.
But now, she stood to the side. Her skin shone despite distraction. It radiated the latent longing to remain though she would have to leave. Her mind tormented as she had to go all the while her heart pressed for pause. In looking at her, he too, was desperate for her to stay. She was more beautiful than she would ever know. Even if she was looking away. Caught in the crisis of a looming deadline. He knew. He didn't like it, but he knew.
In the battle of brain over body, his primal cry was defining. He decided to form his own protest. If she couldn't stay he would absorb all that was her. If she had to rush, he was determined to savor every moment... every movement... every... second. But had the waves ceased or were they only building to a epic Tsunami? A question for each passing, each building, second.
She was in the middle of a reluctant recession. She had already donned the stylish black shirt. She was preoccupied. Her mind caught in the contrast. She longed to stay, but she had to go... she had to. The little death took a small silent portion of her mind. She had to focus. She had to get ready.
But he, he could see. He observed in silent wonder. The fabric clung and caressed her supple and delicate form. The textured fabric stood in stark contrast to the smoothness of her neck. Her perfectly formed almost arrogant breasts jutted proudly forth She pulling up the matching black shorts. The air thickened by the presence of passions building between the two. Her desperate longing to stay was the whispering call of the siren in her mind. His desire stalked like a puma waiting for the moment. The second. The time to strike. His eyes focused. The time would arrive soon, he knew.
The perfect time arrived when she had her hands occupied. They were busy placing the sharp silver accent of the earring into her ear. This is when his stalk began the slow advance. In a movement slow but strong he began to stoke along her inner thigh. He could see the desire build in her eyes. Her movements to attach the pin to the earring slowed. His hand steady, intent, rose. Her eyelids grew heavy with desire. His hand passed the cuff of her shorts. Higher and higher. Her eyes closed. Her hands froze while his hands rose, higher and higher.
Standing slowly he moved behind her. One hand continued its rise. His other hand moved towards her stomach. While her hands remained frozen, her eyes remained closed focusing on the desire building in her soul. Her only movement was to press her body back and lean into his advance. His hand traced along the periphery. Back and forth, The slow advance followed by the retreat. The Tsunami was building. His other hand circled around her trembling stomach feeling her craven yearning wanting, waiting, desperate for release.
Yet he continued the trace. The build. Until...
In a turning lean, she revealed her consuming desire. Passions primal erupted, with a silken slide the Rubicon was crossed. Passion fell in an engulfing deluge as the crest of primal waves of passion fell over the two. In a response to the primitive the two forgot all save the other. Eden would be reclaimed, if only for a moment. In this moment were time was supposed to be all, the two would hold off time, if only to spare another second in the sacred.
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