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