Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Under Where?

These are the things I think of. Mid-day cubicle captured rapture moments that I enjoy inside my head. A smile is spread and so are my thighs, below my desk away from prying corporate eyes I open and close, open and close my legs before crossing my black heels at the ankle and tucking two feet below my chair. But two feet below my hair, the heat is rising.

I should be here in the present tense. I should be comforted by homogenized beige walls that circle me in my own little piece of prime office real estate. My cubicle has two windows. Two. That’s a big deal, but what I love best is the view of the frat house across the alley way. I try not to stare all day at shirtless boys walking to and fro into the room that I see best, when I am fully dressed and trying to look cool and casual while they rub and scratch the way that men do, absent mindedly in their bedrooms.

I shouldn’t look.

But I do.

And outside the window a struggling maple with a thousand multidirectional branches, each no thicker than my wrist bows under the weight of rampant sexuality. Scattered in an about its meager boughs are panties thrown as trophies of conquests these men have had. I’m glad they had and had, and sad too in some way. I’d love my thong upon that tree and no one at work knowing it was me that laid waste to a house full of men in their prime. Give me wine and ample time, and I would rise to the feat and beat the primal drum.

But I want only one.

Panties burn and left hand turn inside my head, I am taken to his picture instead that dangles in gold locket around my throat. It tickles and dangles as he might in between my breast if I put him to the test on my knees. Yes please…

Keep the red stilettos on, his shoulders strong and my calves resting upon them, ankles swinging wildly while he deep dives the salty morsel of my pussy. And would he wrap his strong arms about my thighs, bring tears to eyes as I tried to wiggle free of a vice grip hold. He told me he would do that. I think it was a promise to fuck me until I screamed his name at the ceiling of my bedroom. … I like that thought. I love that thought the girth of him pressing into me with a squeal and a moan and ineffectual escape attempt to scoot my ass up the bed away from his hardness, only to have him push me down and pin my wrists and pound himself into my soft and wet and hot and God….I want his teeth sinking into my neck , his right hand forcing my head still and the look of pure sexual abandon as he takes what is always his to take when he wishes. I want him to take me. I want him to take me. I want him…so badly that all I can feel is a pulse in my pussy a low deep throb on my clit and I know that his vicious fucking of me would have me pouring down my thighs and calves in shameless response to the hard and relentless love of him.

And it is not enough to fill the space with anything. Or anyone. This totalitarian response of every neuron in my body belongs to him and him alone. He authors it. He owns it. He controls it.

I am his.

Skylar Smythe
The Guerilla Poetess (c) 2009

Monday, February 1, 2010


The small sound of my white cotton blouse catching on the printer door I had accidentally closed upon it, turning away to rush off with a stack of white papers that mean nothing to me except a paycheck.

I examine the shirt for damage but there is none except to my concentration. I liked the sound of that you see.

And I feel the warm wet building again without my consent down in saucy grey dress slacks that hug my hips just so. I know that he would love the look of me in these, hugging the circles of my body just so, yet prim and proper. Black high heeled boots that zip up to above the ankle are hidden below a flare that dares your eye to travel upward. To the more fitted place.

I trace the slope of my hip gently then blush and hope that no one saw. I’ve no ability to hide my mind and lovers find me easily to read.

I have a desperate need to be filled. And only he fits.

My head wanders to a hotel room where he might kiss and kiss me with the hunger of more than three hundred days of wanting. Opening my legs and guiding me up onto the counter top where he would sigh the thigh of I catching notice and snug fitting black stocking.

“Those stay on” he mutters, kissing me allowing my hand to fumble to his belt and pull and tug it free until he is opened and solid inside my palm pressing forward eagerly into my warm grip. A promise of relentlessly forward momentum.

“Rip!” the sound of my black lace panties, the frail lace worn just for him to “Rip!” the sound of them as they come apart in his strong hand. They may lay in tatters, it matters not but what he’s got is free reign to test my …

“Ohhhh” and the hand finds the spot all warm and soft like butter waiting to be sliced and spread on warm fresh bread from the oven in my Mothers kitchen and I …

“Ahhh…” the sound of two fingers swimming into the thick pink folds of my tender place, and while I face him I cannot meet his gaze. In ways he is consumption and I am feast. I fear the beast of him and yet I love its wrath…and sex the smell of sex. The beads of white forming on the head of him.

I beg, he relents…wrapping his arms around me as I drop down to the ground and taste him full inside the mouth the candy warmth of him and lick and lick the thick syrup returning to fill me yet with more…

“Rip” the sound of pants kicked off in so much haste, I’m turned and faced to the floor.

“Rip” the sound of skirt hiked up above my hips, his finger tips molding handfuls of me on left and right.

There is time for love. There is time for possession… conquering. Having and taking simply because I was already owned by him a thousand years before we met.


“Rip” paper sounding grounding me back to present tense. And fantasy fades like favorite jeans spun once too many times.

“You going to stand there all day?” asks sarcastic tart. I’ve half a heart to staple her hand right where we stand. But I do not.

I have to change my panties.

Friday, January 15, 2010

The Morning Wakening

I want him.

The weight of that simple statement is carried with me each day, as I wake up and turn my face into a pillow I wish was him. I throw an arm and a careless leg over a forest green body pillow and I imagine for one moment, that it is his body. I hear the sound of him rustle beside me, perhaps he would sigh and smile, without opening his eyes, and lift his arm casually, opening himself to my embrace.

And how do I know exactly that I would fit perfectly pressed against his right side. That the soft plush round of my womanly body would fill and warm the edges of his hard muscle. Some bodies just fit, don’t they? As they are meant for each other.

Tell me then, how I know with perfect faith that the small tufts of hair dispersed over his body would excite me as I nuzzled them gently, raining kisses over his chest and ribs. Lower still, following the path along his flat stomach to something not nearly as flat, but equally hard. How my hand would shake with anticipation simply to touch it.

I hear his exhale in my mind as my lips close around the head of his member with that first long deep slide, taking him with love and warmth into my throat. I know that a strong but loving hand would find its way to tangle itself in my short soft black hair, perhaps pushing my rosebud pouting lips further down, and the only reassurance I need to know that I please him. Taking rapid breaths through my nose now and smirk silently noting that something as manly as this appendage now smells like vanilla lip gloss.

Yes I know that he would not complain or put up much resistance to have me push his legs apart and settle myself between his thighs, gripping him firmly, running my warm palm up and down the length of him. Pressing my face and nose into the velvet soft base and breathing the smell of him down there, nipples hardening in response to his essence.

The wellspring of his maleness is an altar of worship to taste, touch and smell. The body is beautiful to behold, but the body of the one you Love is slow reverent worship. Each moment a memory ingrained upon your soul.

“Come to me” I hear him say, and I imagine him looking down on me, down the length of his beautiful body. The moist parts of me become a throbbing river of desire because I hear the intonation of his intention for my body. It is always his to have. My compliance, if at times hard won, is always his in the end. I can deny him nothing he asks of me, or my flesh.

Crawling feline overtop his body, our brown eyes locked and my eyelashes fall to stare down at him with a sultry gaze. An attempt to establish some sense of control, although I have none.

I cast my legs on either side of him, raising my body and with my right hand; I position him precariously at the mouth of my cave, but do not allow him to enter. There is a part of me that wants to be stronger than him, to see him weaker than I am if only in a brief moment, begging to enter me, the way that some men have done.

His hands touch my knees patiently and warm palms slide up my thighs but he does not break the gaze. One eyebrow is raised on his face and a slightly crooked grin emerges. There is defiance on my face predictably, but I waiver at his touch. He knows this intuitively.

The delusion of my dominance is shattered as he, without warning, grips my round hips with two strong hands and thrusts upward violently. My back arches in response, throwing me forward and breasts bobbing playfully within inches of his face. I smirk and move to pin his arms at his side, and he responds in kind by grasping a handful of my bosom and brings my nipple into his mouth, tonguing the hardness of it and then biting hard.

I gasp and sit straight up in retreat, holding onto the injured bit of me. A look of mock questioning and transparent pleasure at being taken by his will, and his alone. You see, there is no chance of delusion. We monolithic two may be mightily paired, unrelenting in our momentum and aspirations, talents and values that speak to the depth of our pre-histories. In private there is only one being I submit to.

It is him. Without question.

And thus the feel of his penetration is welcome. The space between our bodies and souls intolerable until that exact moment when we are one, harmonious union. I crave his hardness returned to its home, deep inside me. His stare upward watching my expressions, for I am not as strong as he to hide pleasure with stoicism. I am far softer than that; my eyes close and lashes flutter. My gasps for air and sighs of pleasure, feeling the length of him ripping my insides with each savage passage into me.

The wet drowns my swollen member and pours its salty water upon his thighs; the smell of our flesh intoxicating while the chorus of our pleasure escalates.

I would know the expression on his face at that moment when he explodes inside me, filling me with the hot of him in spasms and waves of thick warm pleasure. Weaker then, I would lean forward collapsing on his chest, begging him with my sigh for the feel of his strong arms encircling me, gripping me to melt into his chest while we race to catch escaped breath, eyes closed and relishing the end of passionate fury.

And perfect peace at last.

Yes, this is the content of my morning wakening. The alarm pierces the haze of the half woke dream and the sounds of the city and the silence of an empty bed comes to rest upon my longing heart.

Does absence makes the heart grow fonder? I do not know. I cannot recall the life before him, and will not conceive a life without.

Skylar Smythe

The Guerilla Poetess (c) 2009

Photo: Woman Standing in Front of A Mirror 1841
by Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg