My Writing

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Pre-marital Sex? (FFF)

“Anika!”

She heard the shrill request for her presence slice through the silence of her room.

“Not now, Mom!”

She put her head in her hands, feeling the taffeta of the communion veil sift forward with her hair, grazing her bare shoulders. It wasn’t the same as the one she would be asked to wear, the stiff white cotton of a nun’s habit, but it would do.

photo provided by http://advizortoall.blogspot.com/

She felt so close to God, to the point that she could feel him humming through her whole body. It scared her, because she’d felt that desire before. With a man. God wasn’t a man, but his presence was safe, protective, commanding, and all-encompassing. And the thought of him filled her with want.

Her hand, palpably bare and eager for the ring that would signify her marriage to God, moved across her thigh, as she lay back on the white comforter of her bed. She spread her legs wide to the ceiling, opening herself up to the sky.

Her head rolled back and she licked her lips with a little moan. Removing her hand, raising both arms above her head, she lay exposed, knees up, legs splayed, and willed his energy to enter her, to take her. Her lithe, young body writhed, her breath caught, and she grabbed the sheets, the pillow. 

Without touching herself, she felt her skin become electric, her nipples and sex nearly vibrating on their own. Shuddering, she gave herself to the moment, back arching in ecstasy, and felt the orgasm rush over her body like warm water, flushing her cheeks pink.

(Just want to point out...I made EXACTLY 275 words, avoided the word "wedding", and DID NOT take the obvious route - I don't think.)

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

The Impotence of My Voice

There once was a chance which I did not take,
but take from me - it did - and deep enough
to fill my soul's ravine with longing ache
and guilt to rival that of cheated love.
Your wishful hands brushed my skin to glowing,
a fresh and growing heat below, blushed rose
the flesh of my cheeks -- my eager breath flowing --
this timid mind unwilling to expose
its deepest need. Biting my own taut lips,
choking on the impotence of my voice,
I imagine you, hard against my hips,
my words rising up, a willing, free choice.
  Instead, I held my desire close to me,
  robbing us both of its reticent beauty.

You know...I face the blank page (or screen) almost daily when I'm on a good writing streak. My mind doesn't close. I bite my lip in consternation and concentration. My forehead wrinkles with focus, and my eyes raise to the ceiling or look down in various patterns searching for the right words.

But, when another person is set before me, my throat closes up as if I were having an allergic reaction to my own thoughts, the words held down like dangerous bile that might set my tongue on fire.

Why, oh, why can't I say what is in my head? When it comes it me? When the right person is there to hear it and wants to hear it and needs to hear it? When the words are tight around the tip of my tongue, begging to escape...to hear themselves out loud.

So often, I can see it in his face, the need to hear me say something as simple as "I want you" or "I want you to fuck me." I know he wishes I would tell him my darkest pleasures, and speak of them openly..."I like it when you smack my ass...," "I like it when you bend me over and drip the cold, slippery lube onto my asshole...the anticipation...the surprise...the directness...it turns me on and I open up like a flower to the morning sun, taking you in slowly and hungrily...."

Why can I write that...but when he looks at me and asks me to tell him what I want, I glance away nervously and say, "I don't know..."?

He loves me more than any man on the planet and accepts me for who I am -- occasional instability, insecurity, and incessant imperfections included. And I can't even open my mouth. It's a special kind of impotence. Ironic even...that my fingers can fashion what my mind wants to say, but my lips can't form the words.

So many times, I've said nothing, when my mind was swimming. So many times, I've said nothing, when his gaze was unwavering. So many times, I've simply walked away, or rolled over in the darkness to the safety of silence, disappointed in my own inability to speak.



Thursday, May 1, 2014

Neverland

Flash Fiction Friday - Photo Prompt - "The End"

"Tomorrow," she said, between the space in her front teeth.

"You've been saying that for weeks now." His eyes, normally blue, shone like black pools ready to consume her inadequacy.

"I know."  She looked away, holding his gaze in her periphery. She filled the role of cornered cat like a pro, brooding and sighing and licking her lips in discomfort.

"How long are you expecting me to wait for you to figure it out?"

"I don't know."

"Full of fucking answers, aren't you?"

She began to tap her fingers nervously on her bare thigh, noticing how her sweaty palm stuck to her skin.

The sand was beginning to grind painfully into her naked backside, and she could feel the granules, hot and intrusive, making their way into places where he hadn't been for weeks.

"This was a stupid idea."

"You have a better one?" He glared at her.

"Seriously, I don't see how not wearing clothes is going to make it easier to talk."

"The idea is supposed to be that it gives us nothing else to focus on but each other."

"Yeah...well...it's not working...or maybe it's working too well. Either way, we aren't getting anywhere with this."

"So, fuck it, then. Put your fucking clothes back on if you want and walk back the way you came...alone. I'm done fucking talking."

It came out more sharp than she intended, "So am I." She lifted her sand-covered hands, slid them together, and watched the grains drop like rain across her feet. Looking over at him, she found it oddly disturbing how her shadow hovered above him. If one were to gauge their activity by only that view, it would appear that his head was falling back in ecstasy rather than resignation. It was hard to look away...as the gray profile of her face defied her, moving up the inside of his thigh.

She glanced up, guiltily, to reassure herself that he wasn't seeing what she felt sure was impossible to not to notice. His throat was exposed to the sun, his Adam's apple bulging periodically with each swallow.

In the silence, as he refused to look at her, she indulged in her secret reverie, remembering what it was like to trace her tongue along the underside of his cock.

She closed her eyes and rose to her feet, brushing the sand from the backs of her legs, rubbing at the hundreds of tiny indents left behind.

Walking behind him, she bent to retrieve her sundress, lifted it over her head, and slipped it on slowly, her eyes wandering sadly back to him, sitting on the ground beside her.

As her gaze traveled back to her own feet, up her calves, and above her knees, she noticed how their shadows had shifted, his inky double now squarely between her thighs.

She found it sadly amusing that the most abstract parts of them were the only ones that wouldn't let go...the only parts that seemed to know just where they belonged.

She felt like Peter Pan, leaving her shadow behind to be with his.

Gathering her sandals in one hand, she pushed her hair out of her face with the other before collecting her bag and swinging it over her red shoulder. They'd been sitting in the sun for too long, saying nothing and going nowhere.

The dark version of herself spread out behind her, stretching, refusing to leave. It's only option was to fade...and disappear.