The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts and is desired.
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts and is desired.
That when you came to me
That you felt like a boy
That I didn’t hug you
Even though I felt your fear.
That I struggle
To grasp the seemingly endless
Definitions of “gender”
And how you feel.
That I still call you Raquele
Or refer to you as
“She”, “her”, or “daughter”.
That you know
How truly amazing
That you never question
That you are loved.
That your precious heart
So full of warmth and humor
The cruel bitterness of the world.
You can forgive me
For my ignorance.
The cold porcelain felt soothing against my flesh. Shivers, from my bare bottom resting on the frigid linoleum, rode my spine. My head pounded with angry regret. Moisture, clung to my long fake lashes and coated my forest green eyes, ready to release my pain in a moments notice.
Sitting there, wedged between the tub and toilet, I hid. Not just from the man in the next room sleeping, but from myself. Shame plastered my tender forehead to my knees. The perfectly manicured nails I wore dug their trepidation into my ankles, my lithe fingers trembling with residual fear. Long platinum curls hung over my calves, a thick tangled sweaty mess.
I was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I had given that man sleeping in our bedroom everything I had to give. Everything. In three years he had managed to drain my entire being. To drown my existence until I was nothing more than his timid shadow, a barely animated plastic doll.
No longer was I in possession of my life, my body. Now, my limbs moved only to the invisible strings of my puppeteer, my lover, my master. My lips made only to speak his approved words, to inflate and maintain his fragile ego.
A knot began to form, a dime-sized cluster of foreign emotion. Beneath my discolored torn flesh, beneath my weary heart, deeper still than the endless pit of betrayal that his love had created lay not something unknown, but something…hidden.
Curiously, reluctantly, I dug and probed within myself. Through the depths of my hallow cavernous soul, I descended. My search quickly became desperate, my breathing labored, my chest concaved under the burden of my frantic search. Dark memories coated my essence with the fear of what I might find.
A dim light amongst the debris of my shattered self-esteem offered guidance. Wiping away the gritty layers of hope, the bitters sands of deception and manipulation ground between my bloody teeth.
In my hand lay not a foreign emotion, but a tiny glimmering beacon of salvation; a seeded ember of the divine truth. I brought it to my bosom, the spiritual honesty almost too much to bare. Its warmth spread, seeping into my marrow, a precious sacred reminder.
My hands brushed my nails through my platinum mop glued to my scalp. Lips, painfully cracked, quirked in disbelief of the revelation.
I was more than the battered flesh that covered tired fractured bones. I was more than the cold porcelain that I hid between. My light was meant to cast darkness from the shadows, not to be eclipsed by a false malignant love.
I stood then, for what felt like the first time in my life, and welcomed the tsunami of unwavering determination to consume me. I was done being less than what I was intended to be, of being a quiet observer of my own existence.
As silent and fluid as a puff of dissipating smoke, I moved through the house, gathering only the most necessary of items. Standing on the front porch, the door to my past locked firmly behind me, my face rose to greet the Queen of the Night. Her radiance shone bright and inviting, she hovered full and pregnant with possibilities. I stood before her an infant, spiritually and emotionally. But it didn’t matter because for all of the uncertainties that awaited me, I knew that I held a righteous flame inside of me that could never be snuffed out.
Knowing without question, for the first time, that by which name you give the divine, matters not. What matters is the blessed connection that we all share. That the hallow cavity carved into my being was not meant to be filled with despair and self-loathing. I was meant to carry the sacred fire that burns inward, everlasting and benevolent. That it can never be stolen or destroyed, merely blanketed by the fall-out of our chosen realities.
That night, sure-footed on swollen legs, salty absolution cleansing the open wounds of my past, I stepped…..forward.
it is all just too much
For no reason
other than I exist
there is pain.
A deep rooted sadness
that never really subsides
that takes hold
Shards of misery
eroded by life.
Mandy stands back and admires her chosen canvas. Adrian, blinded by black satin, his brutal anticipation glistens across broad shoulders. Cuffs, metal and deliciously tight, raise his large masculine hands above his blonde head. His skin, paled by office work, stands raised and pink from tortuous pleasure. Pride swells her small nipples. Taking advantage, she moves closer to him, but only just.
Slowly, with expert precision, she allows the tips of her small breasts, hardened with desire, to glide down the whelps he begged for. His breathe quickens on a hushed moan. Adrian tenses; unsure of what to expect next while he feels her on her knees behind him. Lust stiffens him, liquid desire throbbing and ready between his legs ready to explode at her command.
The scent of coconut begins to fill the room. Adrian, resting his forehead against the mahogany bedpost, shudders at the slow oiled motions of his lover’s hand. Massaging the tension of life’s monotony, she works her way across his shoulders and up his neck. Cherry red fingernails glide down a now oiled and slick spine to land on Adrian’s sculpted ass. With one hand she continues her sensual assault, working him in circular motions. Placing one of her lithe hands at the nape of his neck, she squeezes gently. With both hands working in perfect synchronization, she grasps his hair from the scalp and spanks him lightly. Yanking his head back between his raised arms and rubbing the sting from her punishment, “More?” glides from her husky silken tongue. Eyes closed, Adrian cannot find the words he so desperately wants to say. Mandy leans back once more and smacks his luscious bottom again, harder. Finding the words dislodged from his throat, “More,” explodes from a mouth seemingly filled with cotton.
Closing her eyes, she revels in his desperate plea. Right now, she knows she is the Alpha and Omega of his pleasure. Pressing her taunt nipples firmly against his back once more, Mandy uses one hand to drag her fingernails across his chest. With the other, she works his erection with slow calculated rhythm. Her hand glides up and down his thickness; pre-cum a glistening testament to her skill. While her senses are taken over with the amorous bouquet of her erotic manipulation, his hips begin to move. Back and forth Adrian thrusts, egging her on. Begging for more. Begging for release.
Abruptly, and without apologies, Mandy stops. Whimpers for reprieve escape Adrian’s dry throat as his sandpapered tongue licks his parched pouty lips in vain. Head hung low between trembling cuffed hands, he waited.
A smaller oak chest lined with black velvet sat off to the side of them; filled with naughty intentions and waiting just as patiently as Adrian. Reaching into their make-shift treasure chest, Mandy chooses his salvation.
Kneeling before him, she removes the black satin that blinds him and uses the tip of his favorite new toy to bring his attention back to her. His head raises, slightly, to reveal light-brown eyes narrowed by need peering through strands of damp yellow hair. Too large for her to hold with one hand, he watches as Mandy grasps both ends. Her delicate pink tongue glides in leisurely strokes along the cool purple ridges all the while never removing her hooded hazel gaze from his.
Eyes closed, thousands of memories dance across the backs of her eyelids as her mouth widens to take in her chosen substitute for her lover. The faux girth glides down her tongue, her throat. Her other hand, unable to be restrained any longer, finds its way to her tender breasts, across the dew of sweat that formed down her toned stomach, to land inside the slickness between her thighs. Adrian watches helplessly while Mandy’s hips seem to flow back and forth as she works her own pleasure in a way that he never could. Desperation shook every inch of his glistening body as he begged, “Please.”
“When I take these off,” Mandy commanded pointing to the handcuffs, “you will not touch me.”
“Yes ma’am,” he agreed.
With a tone of certain dominance, she continued her orders while releasing his numb hands. “Get on all fours, but I want your forearms and hands flat on the floor.” Complying without question or remark, the position raised his ass to exactly where she needed. Tired of the scent of coconut, Mandy chose a tube of edible pineapple lube to anoint her new work area.
Leaning on her haunches behind him, Mandy took a moment to savor the aroma of pineapple and coconut as it mingled with the perfumes of their unbridled escapades within the bedroom. Placing one hand on the crease where his hip and thigh met, she eased into her lover with special care. Each short even stroke inched her deeper and deeper still. Releasing her grip, she turns and places herself in almost the exact same position as Adrian. On all fours, she reaches from between her open legs. Her long auburn hair pools on plush white carpet as she uses the other half of their toy to enter herself. Mandy’s hips squirm back and forth while she works her way backwards. End to end and skin to skin they meet. Each lover holds their own personal pleasure in their hands while their bodies rock with a slow assured rhythm.
The temperature in the bedroom seemed to rise to triple digits as pricks of ecstasy stream up their spines. Feverish and frantic become their movements. Primal grunts and ragged uneven breathes fill the quiet between the slapping of the lover’s slick bottoms; both working themselves and each other to the cusp of blinding euphoria.
Mandy’s mouth drops wide in a silent scream. The cherry red nails she wore dragged their elation into the white carpet. Her body ablaze, locked in place by blissful spasms as she reaches the apex of her pleasure. Adrian’s brows furrowed and feral grunts escaped through clenched teeth while the raging current within him demanded release.
Collapsing to the floor, he lay arms stretched and spread eagle. Mandy, on shaky legs, crawls to her lover’s side. Brushing the damp hair plastered to Mandy’s forehead away with a trembling hand he asks, “Honey?”
“Yeah?” she replies.
“Am I the only one with a craving for Pina Coladas now?”
Always striving for
Never is achievable