The Seduction of Sinews

We’re playing, because we play.

He’s the Father and I’m the contemptuous catholic tart splayed on her knees, suckling the body of Christ. Absolutely nothing can distract me from this role-play; I’ve been begging for it for months.

But then I touch his legs. They’re rock solid, so taut with muscle.

I can no longer pretend to be a 15 year old harlot. His legs are the most masculine thing in the universe and they’ve frozen the air in my lungs with the sheer force of delighted surprise.


*He’s such a fucking man*.

That’s what my cells say.


*I’m drowning*.

That’s what my pussy says.

His legs are so manly there is only one thing for me feel in response: thoroughly, deliciously womanly.



We finish our role-play, him fucking my face, arching his hips far into my mouth. He cums hard and I wiggle him deeper in so his cum hits the back of my throat. We both collapse on the floor, laughing. Our play always ends with ripples of laughter between us, a shared exclamation of gratitude as much as disbelief. We kiss and I look down to notice the tiniest glisten of cum dribbling from his cock.

“Oh wait, let me get that…” I kiss that sliver off his cock before he can even react. His laughter comes out more robust and enthusiastic: “You are unique!”

I am unique, because now we’re in the bathroom, and I’m curled on the floor watching as he gets dressed. He’s wearing those briefs that accentuate the tight lines of his quads, the powerful curves of his hamstrings. In this light, in this lowered position, I can see the explosion of muscles compacted in his calves. Every inch of his legs are coated with soft taupe fuzz. My hands start to trickle the outlines of his legs, my kisses start littering love all around the back of his thighs.

“Are you flexing? Holy shit? It’s so tight” I’m kissing his calves and only stop to ask that. He’s not flexing, this is just how much testosterone laden tissue is in this man’s body. I’m convinced he’s made out of marble, covered in warm flesh.

I am nearly out of breath with excitement, touching his legs. This must be the feeling of unearthing long lost history. This must be the feeling of pure elation after months of exploration. I am a woman and I’ve just discovered the manliest feature on earth.

My fingers massage the outside of his hips, the inner sinews of his thighs. Everything about his legs are complete opposite to mine. Everything about this moment is the sweetest depiction devotion: he’s standing, watching my adoration in the mirror. I’m indulgently stroking his legs and then lose myself in unrestrained kisses.

Hours could be lost massaging and kissing these legs. I could spend hours kissing places I never would have thought erotic: the back of his knees, the groove of his Achilles heel, the crease that defines his ass from his legs. We don’t have hours, we just have these minutes. He lets me caress my kisses and fingertips along his lines for only a handful of moments before concealing his most sexy feature behind jeans.



Life is so strange and beautiful. We played today and it was supposed to be the fantasy I’ve waited half my life for. But I can’t stop thinking of the afterglow: I could spend days on that floor worshipping his legs.

The Perfunctory Idealism of the Orally Regressed

This is getting hard—explaining the wild, gut wrenching intimacy swelling between us.  There’s so much nuance to our dialogues and dalliances, so much gradation in the courtship of two highbrow hedonists. The explanatory words are the most tedious part; the immediate experiences are always visceral and fluid.

But, ever the sucker for punishment, here goes my masochistic mining:

While I’m driving I notice there are renegade trees, over here and way over there. Traitorous trees. Those impatient upstarts are coppering with biochemical fire even though it’s mid-August in NY. When I see them, my heart fucking ruptures the steeliest sorrow. Sunshine is not forever is what that color says to me. Winter is on its way and my heart goes into spastic shivers. It doesn’t matter if the temperature cleared 80 today; doesn’t matter if we’ll get the muted bloom of harvest and brisk cleanse of October wind. I’ve already witnessed the decay inside of life.

The last russet tree I pass lacerates my heart but then, in a flood, an image dresses the wound. He and I, fist in fist, shoes muddled with soft earth, the smell of crisp vegetation. He and I. Acres of farm land, miles of rusted mountains, unabashed nature.  Laughter in exaggerated scarves. Slow, wet kisses during the 4 pm golden hour. His scent chilled into my pores for days.

Fall.

Him and I.

In fall.

And then suddenly fall becomes a festival and not a fucking funeral. Suddenly I can stomach the tarnishing of impulsive summer leaves.

It hurts admitting this. It’s been my whole life, bunkering down with my own reclusive mind, every single winter. Mostly by choice but not always. He hits nerves that are nestled deep into my core, makes all my limbs soupy and awake. Even if he’ll be here come fall, the whole sentiment of his presence combating the 31 year streak of hating fall… makes me… nervous. Because what does that fucking mean?

Trust me on this kids: he is not “The One”. Or at least not “the one” like Hollywood instructs.

But he might be the most dynamic muse I’ve ever met, extracting so much of my thinking and writing, it all reassembles into something more refined. This might be the single scariest thing that’s ever happened to me (but why? Because the inspiration is so torturously vulnerable or because I don’t ever want it to stop?...)

I don’t have an answer. Just feelings brimming over, drenching me with a new identity that sometimes catapults a crisis. So much of the inspiration comes fuming in luxurious sweeps from our conversations. And then all of that communication triply concentrates and suffuses throughout our sex.

We play fun games.

Sometimes, he tempts me up the stairs by hoisting my pants just a little bit down; a pulse-pinching pause in the middle of my ass. I’m lured by going up first (my favorite position).  And because he leads from the vantage with the best view, observing my exposed whiteness swelled over the top of denim, jiggling with each ascending step. He gnaws a chunk of flesh on step 3, mars the other cheek that inflames like braille on step 5, claws both wads skin  by step 9. By the top of the landing, I am muted with perceptive dichotomy. He’s drags me by a fist full of hair, knees and palms clomping awkwardly on the hardwood, into the swaddled gold light of the bedroom.

“Daddy wants to hurt you, baby. Is that okay, baby, if Daddy hurts you?” He glides off his belt, sneering. I’m kneeling in splayed disregard of the constriction of my pants, a feat not at all possible without the momentum of hyper-arousal. I’m open everywhere: eyes, ears, noses, pores, mouth, cunt, ass, brain. Open everywhere. It's obvious it's okay; I'm fattened for this kill. But he forces me to contribute at all the moments I'm flushed with indulgent idiocy.  

It takes everything, everything, EVERYTHING to verbalize what each singular cell of my body is screaming in unison: “Yes, Daddy. Please?”

“Please, what baby?”

“Please can you hurt me daddy?”

Fuck.

*Crack*

One lash. Two. Three.

By four or five, I scramble, moronically animated. Towards him as much as away from him.

Sometimes he braids the belt around my neck, just enough to make my face tinge into a life-asserting pink. Sometimes he rivets my hands back at the base of my spine, the belt dangling, waiting, in his right hand. Almost all the time it goes like this:

“Where can I hit you baby? Show me where?”

His kindness comes out in rollicking quirks: he sweet-talks my participation in my own degradation. Here daddy. There daddy. Everywhere daddy. And please, my pussy, daddy. Please hit my pussy. Especially my pussy.

Fuck. Especially my pussy.

Especially that look in his eyes when he witnesses my reaction to that searing sting radiating through my cunt, jostling my pelvic bone, resurrecting a feral gutturalness that must have been held over from 3 lifetimes ago. He looks at me like this is the most blessed moment of his whole damn life, the whole sacred impetus behind both of our lives. Especially my pussy daddy.

Sometimes, after he’s satiated the disturbance in his heart instigated by my provocative ass, he lays me down onto his bed, in diluted version of a cradle. He scoops me close and leafs through the lips of my pussy, gently, sweetly. “You’re so wet, baby, what a good girl. Why are you so wet, baby?”

Because it is goddamn psychotic how well you’ve materialize this whole aggression and nurturance bit and the sharp contrast is making my cunt turn to devotional jello! Because I’ve never met a man with this kind of linguistic speed during role play. Because I’ve never been convinced of anyone’s erotic daddy until you…  

But no. I don’t say any of that shit. I barely say anything at all. I croon. I collapse. I meekly squeak out:

“Because you’re touching me, daddy” or

“Because I love you, daddy” or just

 “Fuck, daddy, fuck, daddy, fuck!”

And he responds with open kisses on my shimmying lips. Whispers what a beautiful little girl I am into my mouth, as if directly speaking to my soul. Sweetly tells me how much he loves me. Calls me baby, calls me angel, calls me my special nickname. He gives slow, unhurried swirls on my ultra-alert clit. The tenderest caresses all over my saturated pussy. Micro-spins of delicacy. All that softness, all that deliberately languid torture, churns the whole universe upside down. The most delicate parts of my psyche waft to the surface in dewy response. I am the most exposed, the most visible I’ve ever been in my whole goddamn life. Fuck, fuck, daddy, I’m drowning in your sight.

Sometimes he muscles between my legs as if to worship at the holiest of alters. He kisses the fleshy crux of my inner thighs, the fuzz of my meandering pubic hair, the inferno of bliss between my ass and cunt. He slips his fingers in and upwards. My eyes whip, rotate compulsorily, mouth agape in disbelief no matter how many times he touches right there.

“There’s your little spot baby. Oh, fuck. There’s baby’s spot. Mmmm. What a good girl letting daddy touch right there.”

There are no words now, not even if my life depended on it. I cannot fucking speak when he tenderizes my gspot, when he excavates my cunt in the name of exploration. I cannot fucking speak. Baby’s little spot might very well be the cerebral off-button, the intellectual defense diffusion. All that happens is my mouth, spontaneously, opens even wider, duplicates the cavernous of my cunt.

I scream in complete silence.

Sometimes he comes around to the side of my face, fingers still trickling all those crenulations I can’t see.

“You’re coming to cum, baby? Do you want to suck daddy’s cock while you cum?”

Thank god I no longer need words. Thank god my swelled cunt, rigid nipples, sweating, fevered skin can speak on my behalf. He rubs the underside of his shaft between my lips, lingering crosswise on my teeth, digging his fingers further into my pulsating pussy.

Then he says it. Lines I never in my life would imagine to hear:

“Good girl. Suckle it baby. Take your cock bottle.”

Cock bottle. Of all the words to mercilessly chain down the exact caliber of my sucking, of this moment between two adults, it is that. Cock bottle. Gorging on it with the shameless fervor of a newborn babe. His hand seizes the meatiest part of my hips, the hallmarks of my womanhood, all that estrogenic fat like putty in his palm. Then he tears at both breasts, hard enough to coax out remnant breast milk, hard enough to make me moan through my suckles. Cock bottle. The moment where my mouth regresses to the most elemental drives, becomes intoxicated with life solely through scent and taste. The moment where he grapples the most grown up, curvaceous pieces of me in celebration that I am a woman with her girlhood still intact.  

“Fuck… baby… suckle… just like… that!”

Sometimes he cums, just from watching me take his cock bottle. And when he cums it’s like he is pouring everything he is into me—his orgasm, his triumphs, his failures, his memory, his affection, his courage, his love. Pouring it all into my spastic, speechless mouth. And with his orgasm speeding through my veins, I cum too, like the other half of a circuit, blazing the most delicious light.

All the times, all the time, all the time: we laugh. We laugh, coated in perspiration, dumbfounded from the intensity. And then I make a quip, a wise-crack, to laugh some more but to also prove that I haven’t totally forfeited my voice.

—

Today I saw the unexpected beginnings of a seasonal shift.

And it illuminated this message:

this summer has been fortuitous, full.

It’s only natural to want to preserve those blessings all winter long. 

I want his digits

…Those hands, those hands, those hands…

Those hands build things. Those hands make things, draw things, paint things, do things. Those are the hands of a pursuer, a doer, a shaker and a bustler. Those are the hands that leave wounds on brambles.

Those are the hands of a fighter. 

Those are hands of a guerilla artist, a craftsman, a challenger.

Hands. That. Do.

Hands that are dense with the scars of doing. 

Hands branded with wear, etched with exploitation, hands that are real because they made choices. 

Hands that are nimble from the constant movement, hands that are electric with inspiration.

I want those hands jammed up into my slippery, craving cunt.

I want those hands yoking the nape of my neck, knotting knuckles in my hair.

I want those hands grappling all my flesh, searing urgent red imprints all over my whiteness.

I want those hands probing the open welcome of my mouth, want those hands spreading the cleave of my ass, want those hands slowly rounding the winds of my curves.

I want those hands translating their vigor into my mounds, into my psyche, into the tender roves of my thighs.

                        I want those hands to steel my nerves.

I want those hands to do what they do: unapologetically, willfully, mightily, consuming and absolving.

I want those hands to clutch my body with a definition I’ve never felt before.

I want those hands hungrily digesting my figure; want those hands to chisel carnal hysteria from my motions.

Those hands, those hands that do.

I want them on me, in me, under me, spellbinding me. I want them obsessed with playing my body like a melody that won’t stop coursing through his fingertips. 

An afternoon confession

I want to rummage through his flesh, ripping out kisses and cravings in disastrous sweeps of carnality. 

I want to get lost inside the molecules of his taste as it smears all around my lips and tongue. 

I want to seal him in my solace, let him unravel in my greedy hands, drink him whole and devour his name. 

I want the pressure of his strength careened hard against my ribs, pelvis, womb. 

I want the stare of hunger to be yanked from his eyes when he looks at me. 

I want to make the man second guess himself, to forget that I am dangerous, a fox in chick clothing. 

Power & sex; I want these laced with him, make him weep with desirous starvation. 

I want to seal him into a cocoon of my affection, roll him sweetly in my daydreams and fondlings. 

I want his body to be a post to scratch, an alter to bless, a bruise to kiss, a wound to dress. 

I want him on me, in me, under my undulating hips,

Lips twisted with lips

Fists upon wrists

Aggression and bliss

...exactly this

I want nothing to do with what's necessary. 

I want everything to be loud and impossible. 

Implode-able, explode-able

Volatile me chasing magnetic you

Drunk for days on a name

That I will never get to moan out loud. 

A wish said to the wind

A whisper with no ears to prey on.