Don’t Be Shy
We are here
in hopes of
release from life
to feel wanted
to feed off need
to rise up
feel that moment
look at each other
and start over
Donne Le Moi
He crashed on the couch ready to go to dreamland. But then he spotted her in the corner of his eye.
Her hair was loose & waved around her face. Hmm- he chuckled. What was on her mind today? She winked at him and smiled.
His eyes wandered from the her black high~heels to her tight fitting red gown that swayed back and forth above her knees, then he gulped— at the sight of her cleavage.
How he wanted to just place his head there and listen to her heart beating. Maybe later grab hold of them.
Now she was much closer to him, and she loosened her gown, dropping it on the floor. She was in rosy pink lingerie— he stared at her in full.
She placed her hands on her hips & said, ‘If you’re ready come catch me.’ At this point his heart started to race.
She tried to run, but he caught her and spun her into his arms. He moved his hands to cup her face.
Then said, ‘Tag. You’re it!’ He slowly leaned in to plant a kiss on her purple glossy lips.
He shifted one hand to grab her derrière & he squeezed it. She moaned and sighed happily.
‘Can we take this upstairs?’ He nodded his head, but soon changed his mind.
He lifted her and carried her over his shoulder. She laughed. He dropped her carefully on the couch.
She pulled his tie, and said, ‘Donne Le Moi-.’ He smiled, but then heard her add— ‘Give me- your soul.’
He was shocked at what he saw~ her smooth caramel skin had turned into scales. She stuck out her snake like tongue- hissing at him. Then laughed.
Her eyes glowed a shiny blue and when he looked into them— his soul was taken from him. His body crashed on the fur carpet with a gentle thud.
#DonneLeMoi (c) 13th Nov., 2020.
Hmm. Interesting challenge.
They say you should write what you know. Well... here goes:
in a dance
as are we
Oceans of Bliss
Warning* sexual content
i want your hands
all over my body
slowly caressing the cravesses
and valleys of my quaking skin
dip your hand in my milky universe
and lick the mountains that form on my chest.
I want you to hold those stars
that flicker in my misty vision
let the air trickle down
and our moans fill the night.
let our bodies
ride to infinite heights
yell my name
and whisper with wet lips
to my ear
how much pleasure I make you feel.
I am all yours
make me feel more
trace your lips
along my neck
and push against
my thick throbbing thighs
ill take you in
this pulsing pleasure
as I drown in the waves
make love to me, baby
(ill go on all fours)
I am all yours.
Over & Under
Let me tell you how I feel about sex. I have had my share of intimate nights and days.
On a tense day of work, you go home thinking that a nice bath will get all the stress off,
and you walk in your door and see candles lit and a sexy aroma lingering. You know that someone has been thinking of you and your body craves this attention. You continue to walk through the house and to your bedroom where your night clothing is laying on the bed and you look in your bathroom and your significant other is standing in your shower door with a rose saying "Baby, Let me relax you." You immediately take off all of your clothing and go get into the shower with them. A soft sponge traveling down your back and slowly goes down to your back legs, while their other hand is feeling up your front. You feel them press their body against yours as a whispered moan enhances the air. You slowly turn around and start kissing your lover and feeling everything that wants to touch your palm. Soap is being dispersed as the connection of two bodies continues. Your legs are getting weaker as the motions are now permanent. You and your lover get out of the shower slowly, still connecting by the lips, and direct each other to the bed, where the night is long and the moan is louder. There is a yelp, and a sigh and this was the beginning of a relaxing night at home with your love. You climb under the covers and hold your love closely, with a soft "Thank you" in their ear. Sex can come in so many forms, but to have a person that loves you enough to release a stressful day, without you asking is the best sex ever.
Mangoes In The Rain
She sat caressing the fruit in the curves of her hand; luscious and naked, the mango sat tantalizingly. She could feel the golden–orange flesh seeping through the windows of her fingers. There was no distance between what she was going to taste and her. She sunk her teeth and then her lips into the sun-kissed sweetness.
It was counter-intuitive to experience divinity through the senses, but that moment couldn’t lie to her. The juices of the mango pulp ran down her fingers in sticky streams, and she licked them off in childlike pleasure. Her eyes were in love with the mango. She ate around the seed. Demolished the peels and sat in awe of how she felt. Satiated.
She looked up to the skies and wanted the rain to release the stains glued to her cheeks and lips. She hadn’t ever eaten so boldly and without inhibition. The rain did as it was told that day. It landed on her pleasure-warmed cheeks and washed the remnants of her sins away. She knew at that moment that she had the immeasurable pleasure of living fully. Head stoked to the sky, she laughed, a deep-rooted smile radiating from her insides.
Even for just that moment, she had lived.
ace of hearts
I wish it was okay
to long for romance without sex
but the world does a great job screaming at me
how impossible that is
and I don't believe the world, really,
but it's hard not to listen.
Coming through the mist
Susan was on her front porch when through the fog out stepped a magnificent man, his feet suspended by something otherly. Erasing her stressed lawn, a red carpet came into her mind. Cameras flashing, people cheering, calling his name pushing forward with random disregard for manners feverishly longing for a piece of him.
"Hello my dear Mademoiselle. I am Atillio," he said, keeping a respectful distance away, uttering his name softly; sexy, allowing the L's to roll off his tongue seducing her ears. Right then and there she just knew he had to be real because her previous hallucinations had never been auditory. This was discussed with her doctor at length and she watched him as he wrote down this disclosure with a hospital ballpoint pen, keenly aware of the way he underlined the revelation. Somewhere, this information sits in a file as proof.
"Can I come sit beside you?" He asked, dropping his eyes first towards her breasts possibly lower and then towards the empty chair that she had no reason to wipe down. The towel she used to wipe down her seat lay damp by her feet, as it seemed companionable with the wetness developing between her legs, a sensation long forgotten once upon a time.
"Of course," she said. "Sit if you like, but what I would really like for you to do is to join me in my bedroom and make sweet love to me." Her declaration was not shocking. It seemed natural to them both, as natural as the rolling fog.
"But of course," he said, ready like an on time train pulling into the station. "Your wish is my command, Mademoiselle."
Inside the bedroom, they disrobed ever so slowly watching each other as if before a mirror for the first time, and Susan wondered if his skin felt the same fire that was burning through her pores. When he dropped his drawers she received the answer, pleased by the size of the package he presented. It could not have been more custom ordered.
"What's next?" Was not said by either of them and Susan could not explain how she was in charge but she was, guiding his hand and his phallus to each craving needing attention especially the cavern within her body throbbing with each thrust that he generously offered until she was completely satiated with a finality, surrendering politely but commandingly,
"That's enough." She said. At Susan's command he got up off the bed and dressed himself as if this was something that had happened ten thousand times.
"You can go now," she said, suddenly craving to be alone.
"Your wish is my command," said Atillio, preparing to leave the way he arrived, suspended off the ground through the mist, confident he had accomplished his goal.
But before he left he looked back at Susan one more time asking, "Mademoiselle. Please forgive me. I never asked you your name."
And Susan was not so sure she wished to reply so she did so reluctantly,
"Isn't it a little too late for formalities? Besides, you had me at dear Mademoiselle."
Quite a Man
Jon Bodine was quite a man.
Jon was not at all like the others who worked in the quarry. In fact, he was not like anyone I had ever known, or even seen. I told myself that I did not like him, that he was all flash, and would not last. After all, history was on my side. The flashy ones seldom do last when the work turns hard.
Like many of us in the quarries, Jon Bodine was cajun, his skin coppery, his hair long, in the style of the curly black mane of a Friesian stallion. In fact, a Friesian stallion was what came to mind whenever I looked at Jon Bodine, or watched him with his shovel, or hammer. While obviously muscular, he was not a particularly imposing man. He moved with a light, unpracticed gracefulness- seeming to flow through time and space with the ease of thin water over a submerged bayou log, rather than depending upon clunky muscles and sinews for locomotion as the rest of us must do. Jon would arrive at the quarry every morning already shirtless, his eager muscles rippling beneath dark skin. He ignored the clusters gathered to loiter, sip coffee, gossip, or complain. Instead, Jon Bodine took up his hammer, and strutted gamely to his place on the line. When that hammer began swinging our curious eyes lifted to watch it; envious, cautious eyes, two-by-two-by-two. When it did, conversations tailed away. It’s ring brought forth from each clot of men a collective sigh. Cold coffee was pitched aside, the day having begun, as though the silvery clang of Jon Bodine’s hammer was in actuality the sounding of our work bell.
And a beautiful bell it was, producing a crisp, sharp ping upon impact, with no mis-strikes, or “shin poppers.” It was a ring that produced in the others, myself included, a desire to pick up their own hammers with the aim of making them replicate that same, lovely chime. We were proud men, and were all a bit jealous of Jon Bodine’s hammer, and his stamina. In our pride we strove to match it.
I was often called the toughest man on the lot back then, and the strongest. I was proud of all of that, though not eager to show it off. I was good enough with a drill, a pick, or a hammer, so that one day I shamefully tried to match strokes with Jon Bodine, but did not last long. While my swings broke rock, they were long, jerky, and slow, while his were quick, efficient, and powerful. The muscles of his back and shoulders rolled the hammer with a fluid ease that I could not hope to equal.
The ends of our days at the quarry were much like their beginnings. Jon Bodine never hung around to talk, nor did he join those others of us at the “The Tin Cup” for a cold one afterwards, we not being eager to rush home to unhappy, and unsatisfied wives, the wives themselves being victims of the hard work in the quarry, every bit as much as their men were.
Curious as to where Jon Bodine hurried off to every evening, one night I followed him to a dimly lit street in the old quarter, and to an antiquated apartment building with crooked shutters and weathered brick patios hidden behind twisted ivy, and scrolls of rusty ironwork. Jon soon again emerged from the building with wet hair, glowing skin, and brushed trousers. It was the first time I had seen him in a shirt, and it a collared, pressed one; sparkling white, with pearl buttons.
I spied on him as he crossed the street then to an undesignated, freestanding house where well dressed men of varying ages hurried up and down the front porch stairs without lingering, their heads bowed, their lowered hat brims shading guilty, but pleasurable secrets. When finally satisfied as to the unsavory nature of the Victorian building and its business, I found myself curious about it... about it’s insides; it’s smells, it’s furnishings, it’s “agents.” For a man like Jon Bodine to rush so from work to get here the faster, those agents inside would have to be beautiful, young, and alluring, would they not?
I felt a curious sensation as I stood gazing at the house, an emotion never before realized. I found myself desiring. I found myself wanting to enter that house, to see what Jon Bodine saw, to feel what he felt. I found myself needing to smell those smells, to test that furniture, and to meet those agents. The desire came to me through rushing blood, through a pounding heart, and through a dry, thick tongue. Long I stood there; smoking, thinking, looking, feeling... but mostly imagining.
I imagined velvet sofas where sat nervous, quiet young men. In the corner a woman played softly at a piano, singing with a low, sultry voice to someone from long ago, but never forgotten. I imagined dim lamps, hefty perfumes, painted eyes, and bare shoulders. I imagined an older, whiskered man exiting with an ivory pipe satisfyingly clenched between yellowed teeth while the lingering odor of apple tobacco trudged along behind him and out the door, as if not wanting to go. More importantly, I imagined a young woman with ebony skin reaching for my hand, and I imagined offering mine back to her. I imagined the young woman leading me down a dark hallway lined with soft, plush rugs underfoot, and into a small room with rich wall coverings, and lace curtains.
I imagined the young woman naked then, her skin gleaming dull in the candlelight as she stood over me lying on the bed, staring down at my nakedness, at my erection for her standing tall, and embarrassing.
I imagined her ravaging me then, and then me her, pleasurably, painfully, desperately.
Yes. It was long that I stood there in the shadows of that house, deep into the early hours. It was long that I imagined, and dreamed.
When I did finally snuff my cigarette and start back for my own shack, I wondered that Jon Bodine had still not emerged. Questions filled my mind as I walked, questions I would never know the answers to:
Did Jon Bodine have a girl who worked inside?
Or perhaps he chose a different girl nightly?
Or, and the thought was tantalizingly shocking, maybe more than one per night?
Was he wasting his life, and his earnings?
Or was he right to avoid the trappings, the monotony of marriage, and married life?
Was Jon Bodine’s way right, and mine wrong?
Once home, I threw the questions aside. What did they matter, after all? But I found that my admiration for Jon Bodine had not dimmed. Why would it? Tomorrow would be another long day under a hot, Louisiana sun, and it requires quite a man to swing one hammer with the men through the long day, and to swing another with the ladies through the night. It certainly took a man with more vitality than myself.
But the night was not wasted. There was one thing I was now sure of, one fact gleaned from the night that was certain, and unimagined.
Jon Bodine was quite a man indeed.