Thursday, June 30, 2005

The Post That Had No Title

It was like fire. I went up in a woosh like a fallow, thirsty field. I crackled with flames as they engulfed the bed. My fingers, clenching white linen sheets, and my toes, curled in the sweet agony of "almost", shot sparks into the darkness of the room.

My back arched, and I levitated off the mattress. My body strained against its own limits, like a cherry not yet plucked from a tree. A hum filled the air like electricity before a storm; the hairs on my arms stood up in static arousal. Mmm, they hummed; Mmm, I hummed.

Hair matted on the pillow; yellow if you could see it, yellow even if you can't. Sweat traces a path down the burning of my body, between my breasts, on the back of my neck, sliding down the scorching places where your kisses turned affection into lust.

You whisper dirty secrets to my body; you promise with your tongue. Desire is delirium, and your fingers are my fix. I moan and thrash and buck against you so you'll know the depth of my need.

I'm standing on the edge of the highest elevation. My breath comes in hot, sultry gasps and my head is both cloudy and clear at once. I reach up to the tips of my toes; I teeter there, holding on just barely to the ledge, teasing and testing with my endurance. Higher and higher I go, climbing greedily, hungrily, like a carnal predator that's been deprived. I claw upwards until I can no longer bear it, until I've reached the utmost summit, the very apex, the ultimate climax of my journey. I would stay there forever just to feel the coursing power in my veins, but my body can't support it. My thighs start to quiver in anticipation of the fall. Every muscle clenches, and waits for that push, that tiny push that sends me toppling over the edge. I let go; I plunge into the infinite abyss where every single cell of me untenses, becomes undone.

It's like cymbals crashing together for the grand finale. Passion erupts and I flail about to the last strains of my own personal orchestra. I am a volcano filled with craving, and I spill forth my contents: Red. Pink. Hot. Steam. These are the fireworks of my ravenous appetite.

The blaze has burned itself out. The sheets lay crumpled but still; the ashy remains of intense heat. But the embers continue to glow, and they wait to reignite.

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