How much longer before the spell is broken and the words of ordinary speech come pouring out to sound the end of this maddening desire? How much longer can we press against this hunger?
By Lyn Pierre
It is your flesh I ponder, the sharp angle of the muscle from the knee melting into the fleshy part of the thigh just below your sex. As you lie half awake, half asleep, I admire this part of you and quietly find my way between your thighs. You moan, but it is not a moaning of sensual pleasures, but that of being bothered in the night. I wait until you sleep again then continue to study your thighs and the quiet, lifeless penis before me.
I lick and press my mouth against your flesh, knowing that the warmth of my tongue and lips will awaken you. As I lick, I find your penis waking up, first and then your body as you shift drowsily. It is now that I take your penis in, take it in the state of soft discovery and you moan again, raise your head and sigh, somewhat taken aback to see me down below.
You touch my head, gently playing with the soft strands of blonde hair that you can reach. Perhaps you remember that we've made love twice this night in languid, long sessions of playful give and take. I have worn you out, you protest. I am not tired.
In my mouth, you respond and, of course, I took you in the night, pulled myself up to the top of your torso, knowing that it wouldn't be long before you exploded. I placed my lips on yours and pleased myself, engulfing your penis. I watched your face contort in the pleasure of being quietly ravished.
We have never spent the night together without one of us leaving before the other awakens. I am afraid for this new way, as it seems it will be the end of us.
You came to my apartment one evening after we had had a terrible misunderstanding. You left for hours and then suddenly you were at my door again. It was late at night.
I remember you standing there. You were sure of yourself but asked me if you could come in, anyway. Yes, I said. Of course. I said nothing, and began to make tea. The silence was that of a beginning reconciliation. I began to speak, to chatter, to say something that seemed important, but you would have none of it and there were no words when you came into the kitchen, put your keys down on the counter and took my hand. You led me to the bedroom. I cast my eyes down because I was ashamed and knew that the argument had been entirely my fault. I thought you would spank me, but you didn't. Your eyes seemed filled with intent and you stared at me, searching for something in the back of my head.
You stripped me slowly, never once taking your eyes off me. Your hands were rough and you bit my breasts as you bent down to remove my panties and then led me to the bed. I watched anxiously as you rummaged through my closet and found a belt from a silk robe I never wear. Then you came to the bed, still fully clothed and tied my hands together with the silk sash, then tied my feet so there was little distance between my feet and my head. I recall wanting you to hold me, to tell me that you forgive me, that nothing is wrong, but you didn't.
While on the bed, you fondled me roughly, moving me against the front of your jeans as I could not move myself. I was completely helpless, unable to protest. You dipped your fingers into my sex and then shoved them into my anus, hoisting me closer to you and rubbing me with the rough fabric of your pants. This frottage made me moan with pleasure, and gave my desire away, but you had other plans.
In front of the sliding glass doors in my bedroom, you placed me on the floor and hoisted my backside up, telling me to bend over and hold my feet. It was awkward, but that didn't matter. I groaned with wanting. You took your penis out of your pants, stood behind me and slid it between my thighs, where a smooth, velvet sheen began to form.
I trembled for you. You held my hips and glided into me. The pleasure was intense. You thrust very slowly and I could not move faster or I would tumble into the glass. You enjoyed the power, the ability to make me wet, even when we argue.
I heard you groan as you took me harder and harder, but knew you hadn't come. You held me up and faced me, pushed into my mouth as I was facing you on the balcony. You picked me up after a few minutes, carried me to the bed and put me down, facing away from you. I thought you would take me from behind, but you caressed my ass, massaged and tugged on the soft buttocks presented to you. I moaned again and you spanked me hard until I gave out a little whimper, then you took me, driving deeply into me in fast motions, bending over me and clasping onto my breasts, pressing into my flesh harder and harder until you gave a last forceful thrust and cried out. Still, you said nothing, untied me and left the apartment.
On days when you want me and I'm not necessarily ready for you, I think about different things, things unrelated to you to make myself wet. Does this drive you mad? When I am with others, I think about the things we do, then. The fantasies are never about the same person that's in the room.
Two men, however. That's a different story.
A fortnight before I met you, I stood with a great crowd to watch a band play outdoors by the bay. I wore a black dress, with wide straps and a split down my leg, beginning at the hip. It was a night that I wanted to feel good about myself, to feel sexy so that others would look at me with desire. My nipples remained hard with erotic thoughts.
Underneath the black dress, I had a black lace slip on and nothing else. I felt sexy and hot. The crowd began to dance in place, forced against each other by little space. The band caught everyone in a slow, languorous rhythm. I felt a light hand supporting my back and smelled the heady musk of someone behind me. The musicians played a long, sultry summer song and I remember closing my eyes, leaning back into the body behind me. Very hot hands rested on my hips and my nipples began to tingle and harden even more.
The hands slid up to the sides of my breasts, not squeezing, but caressing, then flicked each nipple with a thumb. I closed my eyes and raised my arms with the dance.
The beat remained slow and these hands pulled me back until I could feel a hard thickness against my ass. I did not protest. These hands, hot and gentle were sliding down my dress until they found the thin band that held my slip up. The slip came down and the flesh of my hips was exposed except for the hand, the warmth of the fingers now moving around to the front under my dress. The penis twitched when the hands discovered no panties and a wet me. Two fingers massaged as everyone bounced in place. I felt giddy. The hands lifted the back of my dress and I felt the thickness rubbing on my slip while the music pushed us together as we kept the rhythm. I tensed and soaked his fingers as I came. I felt a harder, driving rhythm as one hand covered my breast and the other was inside me. I moaned with the music, but the hands suddenly disappeared, leaving me aroused and titillated. I still remember the hands and his smell, but I never saw his face.
The day after we argued, I came to your office. You were buried in paperwork and said you could only talk for a minute. I told you that was okay and put my purse down. I wasn't wearing anything but crotchless pantyhose, a blouse and a short black skirt. I came around to your desk and kissed you. You were impatient with me, still angry from the night before, and you bent me over your desk and lifted my skirt to finger me. Your secretary buzzed and told you your client was here. A female client. I grabbed my purse and hid underneath your desk. When you greeted her and came around to sit down again, I decided to play with you. I unzipped your pants quietly while you cleared your throat. I felt your wonderful hardness and heard the slight strain in your voice as you discussed business in a slow, methodical way. You leaned into the desk and I was able to coax your penis out of your pants and massage it with my tongue. Your face must have turned red because the woman asked you if you were okay and you acted like you might have a slight fever. Perhaps it was awkward that you did not stand up to greet her when she left. It was time for lunch and your secretary abandoned her station and left us alone. You immediately pulled me up from the floor, raised my skirt and penetrated me with a fierce force of passion and desire, coming all over me and your desk.
We met at a wedding reception of a mutual friend. The house was huge and the crowd large. The men dressed in black tuxedos while the women wore sparkling colors. The smell of the room had the faint smell of sex, the smell of a hotel room just after a rambunctious row when sweat and juices have coated every part of the two bodies involved.
I wore a dress with a full, round skirt and sat across the room from you.
Our eyes met and the lusty desires that would define us showed in both our faces.
I watched you mingling with other men, other women. I would know when you liked talking to a woman because your penis would bulge through your tuxedo pants and I could see it from across the room. You happened to glance my way. I stared at you and started licking the ice cream cone that the caterers brought. I used my tongue and kept eye contact as I licked with long, lingering strokes. You weren't able to take your eyes off me after that, but you stayed on the other side of the room.
Several men came up to me to chat and I flirted with them, but you remained where you were, watching me. I soon tired of the game and started to walk away, just to see what you would do. Then you were in front of me, excusing the two of us and grabbed my hand as we walked out of the party. Without an introduction, you asked me if you could kiss me.
I must have looked like a frightened deer, because I did not answer, but glanced back and forth. My face was red and hot. You knew I wanted you. You touched me for the first time and, pulling the blonde hair away from my face, you kissed me outside the front door as people were beginning to leave. It was nighttime and you whisked me off the sidewalk and behind a tree. We kissed passionately and you pulled me into you so that I could feel your need. It must have surprised you when I fell to my knees and pressed my face against your penis through the black trousers. Still without words, you opened your fly and I sucked you off in the dark, playing with your balls as you hissed. All the while, we heard people coming and going. I didn't even know your name.
The next day, you called me to say we were going to New Orleans on the weekend. There aren't very many words between us, nothing to compromise the heady erotic tension, the sexual desire that connects us. We are a study in erotic tactics, using each other for this one purpose.
But this can't last forever, can't be the all of it. I see it in your eyes, the weaning off of tiger's milk, the saturation and satisfaction. It has been two years, now. Two years of abandon, of lust without words and the seduction of the animal and anima, a beast that knows no hurry, no bounds of the body and no ties to the conventional.
How much longer before the spell is broken and the words of ordinary speech come pouring out to sound the end of this maddening desire. How much longer can we press against this hunger without the desire to share, to fill the mundane needs of commonality? To spend the night and awaken on the other side, the two of us together, this may be the end. I fear it.
However, for the moment, I am the huntress, the one that seeks the tiger, claws extended, running through the forest to take on your fiery lusts.