cradle and all…

And he loves her. He loves her like he can never grab enough of her between his fingers. And no matter how close he gets,
even when they make love, it never feels close enough.

— Iain S. Thomas —

la vie en rose

gate c22…

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching–
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after–if she beat you or left you or
you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

– Ellen Bass –

catch your breath…

Honeyed alabaster.

Flawless skin, smooth like silk.  No, like air.  She moves across the room and you can’t take your eyes off her.  A freckle.  A cocktail dress clings to the sides of her small, generous curves; her breasts slightly rambunctious and buoyant.  The emerald-green bounces light into her sweet, brown eyes. The waves and coils of her hair catch your breath like a spider’s web.

Bewitched.

I slip between you: softly, hungrily licking and lifting the creamy sauce from her slick, velvety creases.

Our cries – melodic in their intensity, harmonized in their passion – crescendo.

Succubus.

– Lola Moi –

i bite my lip…

Your jaw aches when I touch myself.  I pleasure myself until you moan… until you look me in the eye and groan your need. You bite your lip to stop yourself from begging… for a taste.  Again and again I rub, squeeze, trace, pinch, dip and slide. You spread my legs, prop them up against your thick chest and broad shoulders; your licks and kisses trace along my leg, you suck my toes.

My gasps are echoes to my back arching, my hips swaying and lifting with each husky gasp and sweet sigh you make. My fingers dance and dip along my lips as they puff and fill with heat. You smell my wet, you hear it and you whimper. Your hand beats in time to mine, your cock now dancing to our shared rhythm.
Fuck, I want you. I am starving for you.
I want to taste you so badly, my jaw aches.
I bite my lip to stop myself from begging… for you to taste me.

– Lola Moi –

i bite my lip