pencil grasped in one hand
fingers wrapped around its core
grey strokes on smooth white skin
shaded curves take form
dancing across the sheet
instrument of art moves
the sound of lead on paper
is my love song to you.
"I-I can't," she gasped, her hands running frantically along the sides of her companion, cheeks flushed and breathing heavy.
A sweet taste lingered on her tongue, saliva dripping down her chin, a hand flying to her mouth.
"N-no, I can't, not here-" she moans, fingers scrabbling along rusted keys and bloodstains of antiquity.
Then she breaks into giggles as she stops her acting and stares at the challenge on the screen, realising she's just made a perfect story.
An open packet of Oreos lay forgotten next to the computer as she types, fingers skittering sensually across the reactive letters as the climax has been reached.
Pomegranate storms rage in shadowed past;
Sheets tossed and stained in reddest desire.
Two pomegranate seeds planted deeply,
Between hungry lips, there for the taking.
A sweetened voice whispers from the darkness
Breaking each strand of life my heart still has.
A sweetened voice crying from deepest depths
Of a passion long since buried and done.
Pomegranate rain falls from moisten lips,
Never to be tasted that way again.
A pomegranate dream escapes my mind,
Memory to haunt me to my last days.
A picture frayed in black and faded white
A final memory tossed to the flames.
A picture stained, pomegranate crimson
The one I can’t lose, as the fires blaze.
Just a taste of him
I grabbed his arm with my right hand. Slowly I pulled him in, closer to my face. I could feel his warmth before our lips even touched. I could smell his delectable aroma.
Looking at him was like looking into a dark abyss. Feeling him was a comfort. Oftentimes his strength would be my reviving.
My body eagerly awaits to feel him inside me.
Mouth to mouth, he slides in slowly. "Mmmmm"... That is good. I feel him fill me. Heat pulsating. Up and down we go. Until he can yield no more.
I hold him a little longer, wishing we had time for more, because that was one damn good cup of coffee!
The Sight of Her
She stood there in the kitchen making dinner barefoot. He watched with fascination as she cut the yellow peppers then put them in the hot pan with orange peppers, onions, and pork. He was always turned on when watching her, it didn't help that she was dancing sensually to the rock music she always had playing whenever she was doing something in the kitchen. The movement of her hips made him hard and he then strode into the kitchen and moved behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the side of her neck and she giggled. He loved the sound of her laugh and it made him love her even more, and it also led to the child growing inside her.
"I love you Mrs. Taylor."
"I love you too, Mr. Taylor." She turned her head to kiss him.
The sight of her had him falling in love with her every time he saw her.
Hot or Not?
I watch him move back and forth, sweating in effort as he continued his even strokes. He paused for a moment to strip out of his shirt and I swear I almost fainted. Hard muscles and a severely curved back lead to a twenty-two inch waist.
The cord to his headphones fell against his washboard abs as he changed his music before pushing his phone back into to his pants. The low hanging jeans shifted dangerously and I had to stop myself from drooling. He adjusted his grip on the handle and gave a grunt of exertion at getting the machine moving again.
Christ... Just watching him I can imagine licking the beads of sweat off his stomach, lower. My need was stifling and I licked my lips as he leans down to knock a rock out of the way.
I jump up and hurry outside. "All done." he says, towering above me.
"Perfect," I murmer then give myself a mental shake. "I mean here. Go buy yourself something nice." I had him a couple bills and he smiles.
"See you next week."
"Can't wait..." I'm not ashamed to say I stared at his ass on the way out. I have needs too. Damn, but it was hot out. I think I'll go take a shower.
Feelings after Reading
In the midst of their action clothes were torn and discarded shamelessly as each moment were conjured into perfection. Their bodies played a steady rhythm; fingers to keyboard, and stop occasionally only to speed up with more systematic pleasure. The ingredients molded together forming perfection yet neither of them wanted to let go; they were aiming for an intense climax. Watchful eyes anticipated the moment staring giddily on hating as they stubble occasionally on cliffhangers. Moments later the bliss of the writers spirituality is finally accepted as both mind and hardcopy has been satisfied.