inconvenient delusions

I think of you in the dark and the quiet, of your sly smile and cunning words. I think of the things you would say to me in the stillness of the morning, when all the world was asleep save for us and the stars. I dream of the trust that was born in those moments. Trust without pretext, or preamble, or.  pre anything. A spontaneous and consuming notion that birthed itself undeservedly between us.

It was so certain, that trust-- that trust. That trust that let you tie me face down on your scratchy wool rug the first time... the thousand times that followed. I can remember the smell and the feel of it on my cock as well as I can the smell of your aftershave and the way it felt when you tickled my slit with the corner of your nail. I knew, with absolute certainty, that you would always untie me. I knew that you would hold me, and kiss me, and let me stay outside of my head just as long as I needed.

What does that make me now? Alone, longing for that knowing again, unable to trust myself enough to even consider judging the feasibility of a chance encounter, let alone anything of longer duration? If I cannot trust myself to know just whom I can trust, is there anything at all left for me in the here and now?

But more importantly, how do I stop thinking of you every time I pull at myself in the shower? I can't even trust myself not to cum at the slightest scrap of memory- your cock cleaving me in two, your hips trying to hammer me through the wall, ugly yellow tile and all.

I think of you all the time, even in the light and the noise, but it's these quiet hours that undo me. It's these quiet hours that leave me bereft, aching and yearning.. for trust.

What are we but our vulnerable places? The places neither of us can see?
But i would tickle Your secrets with my fingertips,
and breathe life between whispered words.

i would caress the undersides of Your breasts
where the skin is tender and folds,
and lift the weight of Your belly
to nibble at each hidden hip.

What are we but these things we do
between the promises of what will come next?
And though i have oft held my lips to Yours,
anticipation sends me groveling for more.

i would drag my mouth trembling -
sighing, soft, and warm -
along the dark dusky curves of Your thighs
(the ones that You claim to hate).

What am i but kneeling before You? Lost in a sea of skirts?
But i would worship You with my palms,
pray hard with lips and tongue,
until Your breath cried Truth at last,
and Your toes touched again to the ground.

Heavy Like Water (a suggestive short)

After a summer of hellacious schooling and a near-death experience that left me more than a little shaken, I have finally found some time to regain my sanity and squeeze in some writing! (I'd like to thank A for that. Thank you!)

Here is a little short for Will as a reward for his donation. Thank you so much for your kind contribution! Hopefully Baal lives up to your expectations. :)

----

For how long had Uriel been living in the darkness? How long had he been so unbearably hot? How long since the song that had once filled his ears had been turned to crawling whispers and curses that crept along his spine to shred his thoughts to tatters?

An instant. A breath. The falling of a grain of sand from the webbing between Puriel’s eternal fingers. Longer. So much longer still. But even the passage of a mortal second was too long.

Temptation (a suggestive short)

Written with Felix Avenier.
----

Uriel liked the snow. It didn't even have to be falling from the sky for him to be pleased with it. Drifts of the stuff along the edges of the sidewalks tickled his fancy, and he enjoyed watching the dirty hills turn to slush at the roadside. It was early spring in the North, and things were starting to melt off. It probably wouldn't flurry again, but there were still patches of ice here and there. The sun was out, but it was cold enough for mittens and scarves, for soft woolly caps and long heavy coats. 


Fences

Because sometimes our brains do things other than we want.
-----

I don’t like fences. Some prat tosses you up against a wood one while suckin’ off yer knob, and whaddaya get? Splinters in yer fuckin’ shoulders. Chain link? Pinches. Pinches every little bit of thrust. Feels like the devil’s bitin’ at yer ass. Fucking fences. Only ones that’s even half way decent is the ones them richies keep. Yanno the ones. Them what got the smooth metal bars spaced out with the spikes high up overhead. Only fucked ‘gainst that kinda fence once though. Rich fuckers don’t like it when ya fuck ‘gainst their fences. Neither do their dogs. Fuckin’ dogs. I don’t like dogs.

*

I love fences. Walls are better, but fences are nice. Oh, especially those diamond metal ones. What are those? Whirlwind? Yes, those. Oh, they’re so lovely. Don’t tell anyone, but I got a blowjob through one once. It was exquisite. Down on the South side of campus where all that brush is growing. There was just a bit of light, and I was so afraid of getting caught.

But oh, his mouth! His mouth was so soft, and warm, and he sucked like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve never had anyone swallow me back like that. It feels amazing. If you’ve never done it, I can’t recommend it enough. I almost came right there and then!

Hmm? Oh, right! The fence. Ha, the damn fence. It was so loud. It rattled and clattered as it bowed and bent. I tried not to push into it too much, but it’s hard to resist a mouth like that, you know? It was nice, though, how it gave and still supported my weight. Obviously the holes were convenient, and I got to cling tight to the spaces above me.

Really, the only down side was I pinched one of my fingertips. I had a recital the next day, and that was a real bear. Nasty, nasty bruise. Damn fence.

Flirtations (a suggestive short)

I love you. I love you I love you I love you. No commas. No periods. On and on forever, until the words no longer make any sense. Until I've run out of breath. Until my lips are dry and cracked from mouthing the sentiment. My chest is swollen with it. Broken. Spilling and pouring.

Your hands are in your hair, and you've no idea I'm watching. I'm watching your fingers curl in and out of the black tendrils of it as it spills toward the book you're reading. Thick and heavy and old, sprawled open on a table covered in papers. Papers covered in writing. Writing from your hands. I love it for being yours.

Your hands are on your face, with their long fingers curled along the solid angling of your jaw. I watch the pad of your thumb slide past the cleft in your chin to catch on your lower lip. You're red with frustration, but I do not think that languishing over the book will provide your answers, my love. You see me watching. The green of your eyes gathers all of my attention, and I am distracted from your hands, from your thumb at the chip in your tooth. You smile, and it makes me smile, and I think it again. I love you.

You're upon me with nothing more than this exchange of glances, and of smiles. Here with the smell of leather and dirt, of hay and oats and horse. Your boots are filthy, and flakes of mud fall off on the honeyed wood of the floor. I do not mind. How could I?

You're heavy on my thighs, and I'm losing the circulation to my feet as they press into the edge of my chair, but I also do not mind this. How could I? Not with your hand pressing up against the crotch of my jeans, your thick fingers tracing out the sideways tuck of my cock. I remark that I think you like feeling it grow so fast. You remark that it started large to begin with. We laugh together, and you toss your head. You kiss me. Your mouth is warm, your lips chapped. You taste of strawberries, and there is a purr to your voice as you tell me to shut the computer.

How could I not?