Flash Flood
Seeing Papi is sort of an excruciating and exquisite torture. I go for so long craving his touch, his kisses, his smile, his love and affection that expectations and desire build like magma boiling underneath the surface of my skin. When we are finally together the slightest pressure of his finger tips on my spine or the tingly tart taste of his tongue in my mouth pries open the tectonic plates of time and denial and I feel my body and my heart explode open with a force that overwhelms everyone in its way, including even me.
Like the earth and the heat and the flesh and the gases and the bones and the water and all the unnamed things that flow through the molten veins of the volcano so is my body. The need and the love and the disappointment and the hope that gurgle and bubble and sploosh out of me can be like a fresh water spring at the side of the road on a long dusty drive. Or like a torrential downpour that flash floods your home leaving you confused and distraught in the middle of the night.
He comes to me late, if he comes at all, and I want to scream and cry and thrash about just like a little girl until he holds me tight and comforts me and tells me it's all right, he's here now, he won't leave me again. But instead I try to act my age and sublimate my feelings as best I can like Dr. Freud instructs us is the sure sign of maturity and adulthood. To some extent I succeed and I can be grateful for what I do have, the time I do get to spend with him, the energy that he does have left over for me. But he and I both feel the red hot sea surging inside of me, threatening to blow me wide open at any moment. Perhaps it is just the intensity of a year's worth of desire compressed into a few days every other month or so; the power of this pressure holding the possibilities of gems as brilliant as any star or obsidian as deeply dark as the darkest night.
Still waking up, trying to drag himself to one last meeting, he rolled over and laid his head on my tummy. The sweetness of the gesture always takes my breath, ever since the first time he laid his head there and told me weeks later how he relished that moment. I laid still and felt his pulse beat in rhythm with the rising of the breath in my belly. I wanted the moment to stay frozen in time and all the responsibilities of the day to vanish so I could keep him there with me.
I surreptitiously slipped my hand under the covers and felt the fullness and warmth in my cosita. Like an over ripe fruit, juicy and sticky sweet. His touch always hastens my ripeness like that. I pressed my fingers into my creases and the warmth spread to my abdomen. I wanted to feel pleasure in my body, in his presence, before he left. I thought maybe then I could hold it there, that feeling, until we were together again. As the slow languid movements of my hand and my hips warmed up I could sense his rising alertness and attention. Not wanting to disturb him I sucked in my breath and held my ass firmly to the mattress.
I felt his fingers lightly caress my tummy and then his hand whipped down and jerked the covers off of me, exposing the sight and the sound of my self soothing. The boldness of the gesture made me want to take him inside me and swallow him whole. I held him tight and pressed him into me. I allowed my hips to rise up to meet him just ever so and when he slipped his arm under me and cradled my ass, letting his fingers brush along the bottom bits of my pussy and my cunt... right then that's when the plates parted and it all came flooding to the surface.
From there it was a flash of my bucking hips and begging him to fuck me and thrashing about as he quelled my beseeching with his fingers deep inside me. It was all an early morning blur that ended too soon with his sweet lips on mine and the alarm screaming it was time to say good bye again.
Like the earth and the heat and the flesh and the gases and the bones and the water and all the unnamed things that flow through the molten veins of the volcano so is my body. The need and the love and the disappointment and the hope that gurgle and bubble and sploosh out of me can be like a fresh water spring at the side of the road on a long dusty drive. Or like a torrential downpour that flash floods your home leaving you confused and distraught in the middle of the night.
He comes to me late, if he comes at all, and I want to scream and cry and thrash about just like a little girl until he holds me tight and comforts me and tells me it's all right, he's here now, he won't leave me again. But instead I try to act my age and sublimate my feelings as best I can like Dr. Freud instructs us is the sure sign of maturity and adulthood. To some extent I succeed and I can be grateful for what I do have, the time I do get to spend with him, the energy that he does have left over for me. But he and I both feel the red hot sea surging inside of me, threatening to blow me wide open at any moment. Perhaps it is just the intensity of a year's worth of desire compressed into a few days every other month or so; the power of this pressure holding the possibilities of gems as brilliant as any star or obsidian as deeply dark as the darkest night.
Still waking up, trying to drag himself to one last meeting, he rolled over and laid his head on my tummy. The sweetness of the gesture always takes my breath, ever since the first time he laid his head there and told me weeks later how he relished that moment. I laid still and felt his pulse beat in rhythm with the rising of the breath in my belly. I wanted the moment to stay frozen in time and all the responsibilities of the day to vanish so I could keep him there with me.
I surreptitiously slipped my hand under the covers and felt the fullness and warmth in my cosita. Like an over ripe fruit, juicy and sticky sweet. His touch always hastens my ripeness like that. I pressed my fingers into my creases and the warmth spread to my abdomen. I wanted to feel pleasure in my body, in his presence, before he left. I thought maybe then I could hold it there, that feeling, until we were together again. As the slow languid movements of my hand and my hips warmed up I could sense his rising alertness and attention. Not wanting to disturb him I sucked in my breath and held my ass firmly to the mattress.
I felt his fingers lightly caress my tummy and then his hand whipped down and jerked the covers off of me, exposing the sight and the sound of my self soothing. The boldness of the gesture made me want to take him inside me and swallow him whole. I held him tight and pressed him into me. I allowed my hips to rise up to meet him just ever so and when he slipped his arm under me and cradled my ass, letting his fingers brush along the bottom bits of my pussy and my cunt... right then that's when the plates parted and it all came flooding to the surface.
From there it was a flash of my bucking hips and begging him to fuck me and thrashing about as he quelled my beseeching with his fingers deep inside me. It was all an early morning blur that ended too soon with his sweet lips on mine and the alarm screaming it was time to say good bye again.
posted by Curious Pussy at Monday, November 14, 2005
3 Comments:
my girl writes with such passion and verve, doesn't she? it's a real pleasure to read what she writes...and even more pleasure to be the subject of the writing!
she does build me up though, eh? makes me seem superhuman. i hope i really live up to all that desire and need.
it's quite nice to have the volcano erupt on me, on my fingers, my mouth, my cock. good girl...very, very good girl!
You said it yourself Papi. No one lives up to my desire. My need. Like a drop of water to a man dying of thirst I think you said. But the irony is that the reprieve you offer only makes me all the more thirsty when we are apart. I'm just voracious like that.
Voracious, indeed. I quite like the volcano metaphor. It works on so many different levels.
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