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

RIP!

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.

Forget.

“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.