Savasana

At the end of a long and tedious day of stressful work, I find myself attempting to sleep with an over stimulated mind and a fatigued body which is restless.  I have the "syndrome" in my legs, which rocks my husband to sleep -- soothing him (or so I tell myself), but leaving me running mental marathons, joogling my feet side to side or else twitching.  

Yearning to and finally entering that loitering space between wake and sleep ... my happy place ... eyes closed, I imagine the sun filtered and softly glimmering through leaves swaying in the breeze, warmed again by reflecting the sand that I'm laying upon.

I want to be the two circling hawks in the bright sky dancing in lazy circles in the hot current lifting them while cool air keeps them from floating too far away, holding them midway between flying and falling into thoughts of you, both making me feel lighter while applying the comforting weight of your body on mine while you kiss me gently.  

Your breath is warm and delicious on the side of my face as I hear your voice, a resonant deep whisper which I recognize reflexively, delighting in this hazy reunion.  It is relief, like an addict tasting the drug I’ve been kept from, locked away for too long.   I survived the excruciating withdrawals and shaking, the itchy skin … until what I want is so close.  All I have to do is reach out and allow myself to let go, no more jonesing.  I will feel better.  I will "sleep ... perchance to dream ... ay ... the rub."

Your voice in my ear.  No need to convince me of anything, I am so into you.  I am so ready for you.  

I imagine you with me as I softly and very slowly move my hands under my faded baggy t shirt.  I am both benefactor and beggar, touching and craving touch, my fingertips enjoying the stereognosis, my stomach pretending it's not me while also attempting to feel the hair on your stomach, your chest.

I conjure your hands on my breasts, squeezing fully and so hard that when I move on from them, the heat and redness remains -- hot marks and creases on my skin made by your hands.  My nipples erect and wanting.  When you lick and wring out each one, electricity zaps through my middle like lightening.  It's tendrils striving to rearrange internal molecules but finding no ground.   Goosebumps and the little hairs on my arms stretching into the air stirring above me.

I like the feeling.   I like what you are doing to me, but my needs are becoming fervent .  One hand slides down inside my pajama pants -- the draw string has always been fake.   A soft elastic waist band is a defenseless deterrent and my fingers know the way.  I am already wet, my cunt salivating wanting you.  

At first I am very light with my touching -- I like tactile sensations.  Tracing my fingertips along my pubis marking the soft stubble from a day's regrowth from shaving in the morning.  I feel my own soft skin and imagine you parting my knees to have better access.   I want you to taste me.  I want you to take your time and enjoy it.  Little circles over my clit, dipping down and inside to spread around my wetness.  The pleasurable sensations increasing with the addition of this conduit.  

I am picturing scenarios:  body parts, different places, positions.  Your hands pushing my legs as wide as possible.  Use me for filthy, dirty fucking.  Invite others to watch.  Invite then to use me, too.  There's a rhythm.   I am alternating pulling and twisting my nipples with one hand, and rubbing my clit intently with the other.  I seep.  I become more swollen -- more erect. The nerve endings from the fingers on my left hand will soon feel as though they unite with my right through my abdomen with the feeling of electricity and melting and convulsions blurring the fantasy of us because my eyes are clenched so tight and my brain ... just shut completely off.  

My orgasms are intense.  

I soften my face and my legs twitch again, releasing the energy outward.  The hawks' lazy floating circles drift up and out and disappear -- the warm air winning and the weight lifting.

I listen to the deep contented breathing of the one I love sleeping next to me to insure I did not disturb the safety of our bed. I smooth down my shirt and relax as I lick my fingers and fade into a dreamy sleep.   

"For in that sleep of ... a little ... death what dreams may come" for sure.

Weekend Pass

The celebrity hall pass -- a hypothetical situation where one finds themselves within the proximity and ability to have sex with a person of their choosing, no strings, no ramifications, no problems, no questions, no guilt.  Top 3.  

My list has changed over the years, but began with -- in no particular order and revealing my age very much indeed:  

LL Cool J -- "Lady's Love Cool James Todd Smith." Yes, I did. When he'd lick his lips and tell me what his mamma said to do in that boxing ring ... the perfect combination of soft and hard that could make me question my plans for college.    

David Duchovny -- knowing more about him now than I did when I yearned of his existence playing Fox Mulder, perhaps he'd take me up on on the offer?  He can be so pained. He feels it (yes, I know he's an actor). His mouth is ... dirty.  In my memory, he describes a cheesecake drizzled in a decadent white or dark chocolate ganache with clotted cream and a raspberry or strawberry or some kind of berry compote as garnish.  And sprinkles.

Lenny Kravitz.  Ok.  He is still on my list.  Have you seen this man? Admit it.  He's on your list, too.  

Wouldn't it be lovely to spend a weekend ...

Fucking.

And Fucking again.

Shower.

Go out for food and drink.

Playing.

Returning to a hotel?   I didn't think the details through...

Barely making it through the door before wanting more.

Collapsing into each other for sleep.

Waking again with the light.

Fucking again.

And again.

Upon arrival to an agreed upon city, we would meet at a hotel.  Whomever arrives first would check in and go up to the room.  If it were me, I'd freshen and be anxious.  If it were you, you'd be patiently waiting on my arrival.  I'd knock.  No need for mannerly introductions, this isn't a mixer, we know what the agenda is. 

Pull me through the door and press me against the wall.  Our kisses hungry as if we've never heard of any other sustenance besides spit.  No time to get clothing completely removed -- this is not romance, I want you inside me immediately.  

In this moment, there is nothing other than breathy grabbing and thrusting and fulfillment of what seems an eternity of anticipation and want.  A very quick introduction, but we have the entire weekend for an encore.

Now, I'll freshen -- taking in the bathroom, noticing the adorable hotel soaps, tiny shampoos and lotions that smell of oddly coupled things:  bergamot and white moss, cocoanut and sandalwood, Italian summer and ginger, you and me. 

Free of traveling grime and clothes, I join you on the bed.  A bed is useful for two things.  Sleeping and fucking.  We will not be sleeping now.  This is the time to spare no effort, but we can move deliberately and slowly, ensuring each touch is memorized.  Every molecule consumed by fingertips and tongues, tactile tasting devouring swollen and dripping offerings.  Getting to know the truthful honesty of things mentioned as preferences.  I do love to be kissed on my neck.  I do love a strong hand.  I do love to give power. I do love to be worshipped.  Nothing else matters until we've become very intimately acquainted with every shuddering nerve until exhausted we sleep.

Waking to find you here at my back, arms encircling, pulling me close, erect ... let's begin this day right.  The brothers Kellogg would be entirely disappointed in our decision for breaking the fast both in calorie intake but also in enjoying fleshy pleasures.  

Let's then have showers and pretend to be normal as we get ready and find some sort of coffee or espresso or tea and walk in the sun. I have this fantasy of pretending I'm interesting.  I want to go to a gallery and view art and talk about what we see. I want to go to a sidewalk cafe and observe others as they observe us.  I would delight in every word spoken, entranced in your sexy intelligence and life experiences and the cleverly silly things that make me giggle stupidly while I sit across from you, my toes touching your legs.

Others will be jealous of me.   They will look at us and know exactly what we do, and imagine what we are. 

It won't be long before the proper need for privacy is calling us back to the hotel.   I have already forgotten what we have eaten as I am hungry again for you inside me...

In the afternoon's shadows we find an alley for you to hike my summer dress to my waist and bend me over while I brace my arms against the rough exterior of a brick building?  Parting my legs by nudging my feet wider while you wrench your zipper down.  My cunt already wet from your voice.  Fuck me while your hands search for something to grip -- my dress, my hips, my elbows, my shoulders, my tits.  Eager and sweaty grunting. Sodden undergarments are discarded in a trash bin as we leave.  Cum oozing from my cunt as we attempt to return to our room.

When we finally make it through the doorway, it is the floor where you'll splay me to lap the latest deposit you've filled me with.

It is the late afternoon and I don't want to think of Sunday.  

I must remember to drink water, but I want is you.

Saturday evening, the bar downstairs.  My hair is unkempt.  A little sheen on my skin from today's untidy activities.  Wind swept.  Free. You always look put together and gorgeous.  We invite conversation with others and entertain thoughts of inviting them to join us.

But now, I want you alone.   For the final moments before our weekend ends.  Softly stroking and soothing, aftercare and what could be considered basking if the sun had not set hours earlier.  When you wake, I am already departed.  Thank you.

My souvenirs from this weekend:  Slight rug burns, a scrape from bricks on my cheek, and an intense magnetic need to return to you as soon as possible.  I won't call it a come back.  We've been here for years.  

I wonder if celebrity crushes have lists.

Modeling

In college, I devoted my studies to the History of Art, with the odd goal of wearing tailored suits and sleek, smooth hair held neatly in a bun.  Through the course of my education, I was required to take several figure drawing classes.  I enjoyed them immensely.  I learned anatomy — how the skeleton supports which muscles connected by what tendons covered by variations of flesh.  We were always encouraged to dissect the naked form into still-life shapes, finding their relationship to the next shape, noticing textures and how the light and shadow highlight bits and hides others.  I’d leave these classes, exhilarated, covered in charcoal, on to the next class, but thinking back to our models.  

A model, voluntarily naked on display, vulnerable in front of horny and confused students sketching for good marks, hoping to check things off the rubric while developing an artistic style … or something.  Though I seemed to do ok with the perspective and proportions, I often had trouble separating the still-life before me from their nakedness.   (Those rower’s shoulders were not going to massage themselves.)  I was both mesmerized and jealous. 

Intensely scrutinizing male or female body features and proportions.  How well does this human represent the “ideal” — the golden ratio of Vitruvian Man.  Compare and contrast, taking artistic liberties on the newsprint … and in my mind.  

Picturing my fingers tracing lines.  Examining textures:  smooth, soft, curves, firm, warm, long, girthy, erect, hard…

Since that time, some things have changed:  my goal of looking put-together in professional work attire with respectable hair has flown right out the window with any hope of a well-paying career.   

But what remains is the hungry jealousy which comes from my evolution of becoming both exhibitionist and insatiable voyeur.

As it has happened, I find myself sharing select, very controlled images of my body to a curated audience.  In this community are those who appreciate art and the artists who create pieces depicting the nude form.  I consider my photos artistic (composed by light and shadow and composition, creating a benign landscape or still-life of myself), but also a vulnerable naked display in front of horny and confused students.  Is this “modeling?”  I have been asked about my perspective. 

Imagining myself in their place, I wonder how the models in studio felt and what their thoughts were — how they passed the time, holding a pose, observing each of us while we scribbled and shaded, fingers rubbing the curve of her breast or perfect connection where his glutes met the back of his thighs.  

Do any of my models allow themselves the indulgence of a wandering mind as I do?  In the “gesture drawing” part of the class, a model is instructed to take different shapes — performing stretches, twists, bending, kneeling, reclining; a warm up for the class —  examples of what they might present for a longer pose.   Lights are adjusted to give each artist the benefit (in my case a crutch) of drama to enhance shape.  

As I exhibit myself, I imagine what you think. Are you similarly hungry with desire as I am when I divide into pieces (tear apart) a model with my eyes?  I imagine your gaze sweeping very slowly down my neck as if touching, searching for a reaction — visual evidence of my arousal.  My nipples erect with the attention given by your laser focus.  A warmth … a quickening of pulse, a slight perspiration under the light, an intense needfulness.  Moisture between my legs as I am made alive, stimulated by my audience.  

I am reminded that I am supposed to remain still, while the urge to splay my legs and arch my back is intense.  My fingers finding wet folds, exposing and opening to the shock of everyone in the room.  Sinking two middle fingers deep … withdrawing … glistening, reflecting the light, writhing, wanting to be joined on this pedestal by those in the studio with charcoal covered hands, scribbling and shading, rubbing with fingers, damp, dark gray black smudges on my neck and face and tits and thighs, stomach and ass.  Use me as the medium and canvas. 

Intensely comprehend.   Study.  Cram.   Forcefully turn me over to study me from every angle.  Repeat for memory.  

Use your sensitive instruments — fingers, tongue, cocks —- to probe and yield to the desire we are creating together, surrendering to the trancelike pull of our creative expression.  Frenzied disregard of art studio etiquette.  Normally, only the model is nude, not everyone.  “Form follows function,” taken to the extreme as I am the form and each student performing a function to get. us. off.  Every erect protuberance answered with a warm wet place to stick it, again and again.  We have become abstracted in undulating lines and textures in the dramatic lighting. 

Time is noted, and everyone begins hurriedly working their final details as my expanded universe is brought into focus with the self consciousness of losing myself in thought.  Is my flushed chest or swollen wetness noticeable?   Did anyone feel a shift my aura, moving from passive gray to red as I melted in frantic fantasy?  

I love to observe the various styles and expressions of model and artist, imagining thoughts and narratives in the infinite relationships between.  

 

The Spice of Life

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A Sort of Meditation

Allow me, please, to touch you.  The tips of my fingers want to read the lines and scars and heal your heavy mind with a sort of meditation.  

Lie on your stomach against the bed and rest your face in your crossed forearms.  Close your eyes and breathe, letting go of every thought except right here and right now.  I am naked and warm kneeling beside you, my voice is quiet and soothing as if it’s telepathically what you crave.  

Gently, along your shoulders, I will begin tracing the shape of your scapula, enough for you to know they are there, but gently allowing the nerve endings at the ends of each digit to consume any worry.   I will move along your skin registering the different textures between  places with body hair, or creases or a raised freckle.  I like It when your body involuntarily reacts with chilly bumps if I scratch with fingernails. 

Gaining more deliberate pressure, I begin a rubbing massage, I want you to feel good, shedding any ache.  My erect nipples touch the back of your thigh as I reach down your legs.   Do you notice the differences between intensional touch and an accidental graze?  Do you notice that I am enjoying these sensations as much as you?  

Furthering the experiment of what you may note, I gather the growing wetness from between my thighs and return again to your shoulders.   Perhaps, I finger paint a little heart.   At first matching warmth but cooling in the quiet air to make the imprint more vivid.  

And now licking to discover how I taste combined with your skin.  

You are aroused, too.  You push your pelvis into the mattress.  A little weighted pressing attention to your penis.  A flex of your glutes.  I like this.   My hands return to your butt and caress your cheeks and finger between.  Unspoken, but I know you like to be touched there.  You’re gently moving your hips, unhindered by the shame we all are forced to carry when we’re learning what pleasure is.  “Let your mind go and your body will follow.”

Roll over and allow me to kneel between your legs, my eager hands continuing to touch every inch of you.  My arousal becoming more evident as I get hungrier. Kissing your belly, touching your nipples, licking the tip of your dick — the drop of precum a delightful compliment.  

Again, I want you to feel every sensation separately, noting the differences between my tongue when it’s moving along the shaft or while deep inside my mouth.  I want you to notice my teeth.  I want you to feel my breath enjoy my hair as it softly falls over my face.   While you are prone here, my fingers are exploring, perhaps sharing wetness from my cunt with the edge of your asshole and circling gently while the end of your cock sinks rhythmically deeper until I gag a little.   Keep going meet me with your thrusts. 

Remember:  right here and right now.  Reverent focus.   Nothing else matters except this altered worship and release.  And when you do, I will share it as I raise from my position of prayer to kiss your mouth.   An offering which is bountiful and binds us in this attainment of bliss.  

As I sit here imagining just how inappropriately a Thursday could go, I’m reminded of our meeting with HR and the company lawyers — invited to answer questions as we learned about sexual harassment and how not to do it.  The rules are far more extensive and restrictive than “good touch / bad touch” and “please refrain from molesting your subordinates.”  The hardest for me to define is: “If a co-worker sees someone doing something and is offended by it thusly, they may sue for being sexually harassed.”    

This particular meeting can be simplified to what I consider “liability panties.”  (Must be performed to cover the company’s ass).  But let’s wonder together, shall we, about what offends?  Should HR, under the guidance of our corporate lawyers hand out a questionnaire with boxes to check listing potentially offensive acts?  How many votes equal “offensive?”  One?  Over 50%? 

Sample scenario 1:  “You see a manager slap the buttocks of their immediate subordinate.” with a gradient scale of 1 - 10, one being not offended at all and 10 being really, really super offended.  Is 5 “indifferent?”  Or is 5 “don’t know?”

Would you want more details?  Is the hiney smacking a reward for a job well done?  Or a "Go get 'em!" act of confidence instillation? 

Sample scenario 2:  “You witness two employees enter a broom closet together.  Giggling ensues.”  Gradient scale again.  Would you want more details?   

What’s an HR exercise without a role playing exercise?  Volunteers?  We’re all going to sit on our hands, right?  Except, because we worked through 500 different bland, but slightly titillating compounding scenarios leaving us a little uncomfortable in our seats, maybe we’ve already played through this mentally.  Maybe we’ve already fully imagined what it would feel like to be fucking on the conference table while our colleagues look on with their identical clipboards and identical pens.    My legs as wide as they’ll go, a foot in front of Lawyer # 1, the other braced on the chest of our boss my ass to the edge of the middle of the fine mahogany while you slowly thrust in and out, as we make squishy wet noises in the jaw dropped silence of this particular role playing exercise. 

Questions as I smooth my hair and you re-tuck your button down: 

1.  Were you offended by that?  1 - 10. 

2.  If so, why?  Please be as detailed and specific as possible in your answer.  In a rectangular box one inch by seven and a half inches to accommodate the margins on the questionnaire, will those in the room list the act of being forced to watch their colleagues fuck?  You can’t un-see that. Or would it be in the details:  I’m a bit fleshy and you have gray chest hair?  Or that we are both married to other people?  Or the wet squishy noises?  Or that we identify as straight and white and don’t represent the diversity that the next HR with lawyers meeting will address.  How will anyone know specifics of what is exactly offensive? 

Or, should we just play it safe and legal and just assume everything is offensive to someone.  

Except on Thursdays. 

I Scratch Your Back, You Scratch Mine

I finish rinsing and turn off the faucet, the bathroom steamy from my shower, my skin pink from the hot water and scrubbing.  I dry off with the towel from the floor and head upstairs to get ready for the day. You're busy, ironing a shirt, finding socks...until I stop and stand in front of the dresser, naked.  I put both hands on the antique deep walnut top and lean over a little, sticking out my butt, stretching the muscles in the back of my thighs, my body glowing in the light of the lamp that's there.

You notice.  You know what I want.  You come to me and I smile.

You begin right between my shoulder blades your fingernails are trimmed nicely, so you have to really mean it to do damage -- I want some damage.  Scratch my back.  Work in slow circles symmetrically midway down where my bra strap would be, a simultaneous wax on wax off in reverse, and then lower, down the middle of my spine.  Dig a little harder returning to my shoulders, the red now raising to the surface as my itch is temporarily satisfied.  My skin is especially sensitive.  I understand what scratching an itch is simply a distraction to those nerve endings, confusing a needy irritation for a little pain.  

My back is a war wound remembering too much time spent lying on my stomach digging holes in the sand.  Those burns so deeply layered.  My freckles are fond battle scars; homage to the memory of sun worship.  I miss Vitamin D.

Kiss the back of my neck. 

My hands find you behind me...cupping...teasing.

I turn to face you and hold your gaze as I kneel at your feet.   Dirty reverence and adoration given in gratitude at this altar lit in dim morning light. Favor for favor.