even in silence…

It’s a complicated thing, wanting you. Loving you in this way. Inviting you to accept my desire and pleasure and need as equal to yours… as equally tempting, sexy, beautiful, and powerful. “Is this alright?” No. Stop. There is no doubt: you are my lover, the one I can’t get enough of. The one whose smile makes my pussy swell. The one I want touching me, tasting me, licking and suckling me, testing and tempting me… fucking me into oblivion.
.
.
.

Your cum begins just as mine peaks. Our lips meld, shaped wide in the mirrored “O” of our orgasm. Your cries vibrate along my jaw and the force of your final release makes me weep. This is all you needed—for me to lose myself like this in your arms. Your cock fills then pulses and pulses and pulses as I squirt all over you. My mess is merciless. My fingers dig into your strong body as I push into you—begging you to pulse inside me one more time. Our foreheads together, we kiss… breathy, slow, sensuously.

I wrap my tongue around yours and you briefly suck on my upper lip before gently pulling tendrils of hair off my face. The power of your tenderness—before and now—inspires yet another moan from me. Your hand cups my face so you can look at me. My eyes are bright as I return your gaze. Your knees buckle in this weird slow motion way when you see how true I see you. When you see where our secrets took us—what permission they unlocked. When you see how much I loved being with you just now. When I let you take your time drinking my disheveled body in… gleaming with our sweat and cum.

You gently kiss me in all the places you missed before; you smooch and nuzzle against me until my breath settles. My hand leisurely traces your hair, your ears, and jaw, your shoulder and limbs and lips. When you rest your head on my hip and wrap your arms around me suddenly and squeeze, I’m surprised to see how much you’ve given me of yourself.  My smile: my trust. You know then, without asking, that I want to do this again with you… in all the different ways we can think of and those we can only feel. I want to taste your freedom again when it’s like this—naked.

to make them blush…

to make him blush

The words that make the rose bloom were also said to me.
The words told to the cypress to make it grow strong and straight,
The instructions whispered to the jasmine,
And whatever was said to the sugarcane to make it sweet,
And to the pomegranate flowers to make them blush,
The same thing is being said to me.

– Anne Lamott –

rose bloom

my body is a cage…

My skin is soft but what part of me isn’t (besides the scars, I mean)?  My skin, a kind of map, a version of me you choose to trace and buy into. At least for a time. I imagine your fingers trace me because, like me, they are curious about the route we are on and like me, wonder what sights we will see along the way.

We seek direction even when we say we prefer to be lost.

My body secretly warms to your touch; we pretend there is nowhere else you’d rather be. And when we smile, it is not because anything has settled, it is simpler than all that; it is because something grows – and the mystery of our meeting, and sharing, and fatally flawed offerings fill us to spite our tenderest selves.

Yet, in the abundance of hope, in the sanctuary of faith, I speak words full of sacred. I speak the fullness of myself. I utter shape that carves the path leading straight to my heart.

And we dance.
And we dance.
And we dance.

The word comes from the body. When you speak, breath reunites thought with flesh. And with that comes a whole new awareness of what might be true. Or not.

Or not.

Lola Moi –