No one covers me the way he does. The storm of him rolls over my horizon, dark boiling banks of cloud that blot out the sun. His energy seethes, coils, writhes, and serrated forks of lightning bleach the world to white in singular, blinding flashes. The glint of an eye, the spark of a smile that isn’t. The tongue that wets his lips in anticipation of the first strike.
No one holds me like he does. Face down, flat against the bed. His hands, claws, encircle my wrists, mnemonic bonds of ownership. Reminders, as if I had need of them, of who I am in his eyes, in his presence, in his arms.
I always struggle. Not hard, but I do. If I were just to lie still and acquiescent, things would go easier for me. I know this so well, and yet I can’t. Instinct takes over, rebels against the looming prospect of the onslaught, the temporary disassembly of self.
He will devour me. Not with his mouth but with every cell of his body. He traps me in the tightening of his sinews, in the coil of his muscle, in the black-holed hunger of his desire to take me in and colonize my flesh. And so, for an instant, before resignation takes over, I panic, like the prey I am. Then I accept.
My predator. My shark-skinned assassin. Drinker of tears. No one destroys me the way he does. I believe I’ve built my defenses with such cleverness and care, but I’m wrong. Every time. No one else knows the location of my many hidden hinges, the load-bearing walls of my structural integrity. He knows the perfect places to lay the charges and take down my artifice, my edifice, with such elegant economy.
But this is all so abstract, isn’t it? Where’s the meat, the details, the arterial spray? You want the arena, the sand, the sweat, the blood. As you read, you roar for the killing blow. Where’s the splayed cunt? Where’s the pounding cock? Where’s the lash, the lick, the suck, the spray, the slit, the spasm, the bruises? Where the fuck is the fountain of flaming lust?
I cannot give you that.
That is mine.
And his.
Alone.
Where is the meat, the details? In my mind . . . now 😉
The beauty of this type of writing is in the readers ability to go further in their own mind.
Yeah, I’m playing heavily with that – just proposing a paradigm and an aura, and hinting at the concrete, then letting the reader take it there. Not sure my story blog is the right place to do it, but anyway.
This reminded me of a bed with fresh new linens…
Beautiful. So different.
Oh, this is a really good example of writing with space in it. By which I mean it is rich and full, but not so claustrophobic that the reader can’t take it further. Very beautiful.
I loved it that you left it to my imagination to fill in the blanks…Ipoh! *grin* Thank you. Another?
I understand why you said this may not be the best place for this specific writing style. Still, the point was received and I did take it further. The way you described the sex life between the two was so poetic, like the things people can only strain to say because verbally and to another person, it never sounds as good.
That was wonderful, thank you. With every story I read, there is this moment of anticipation where I’m filled with wonder about where this is going: here, I finished the story and immediately re-read to enjoy the journey and not the destination. 😉
Please keep playing with this kind of story.
I feel a story within a story and am intrigued: a wonderful opening chapter to a novel…
Erotic literature can certainly explore the nature of desire and the diversity of our sexuality without describing each parry and thrust. Your writing is the perfect example.
I enjoy the anticipatory element of reading your work RGirl: I’m never quite sure what is coming next.
Delicious.
Thank you.
Lovely, it makes me feel like you’re talking about your blanket
Love this! The exquisite torment between submission and power, then the shift at the end where the reader is the one left powerless. Wonderful!
I love how this leave so much to the imagination and interpretation. WELL done!