Passion

It lies in all of us.
Sleeping, waiting and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir.
Open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us, guides us.
Passion rules us all and we obey.
What other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments.
The joy of love,the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear.
If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace but,
we would be hollow.
Empty rooms shuttered and dank.
Without passion we’d be truly dead.

Joss Whedon



*I* LOVE this.

Brief

She placed them into his briefcase when he wasn't looking, knowing that the next time he would open it, that he would find them.  There was no way of knowing who would be there with him when he did, whether he would be alone . . .or not.  Whether it would be in the office or on the train.

Except, she didn't care. She didn't care who would see, or how he would feel.  She loved the thought of his cheeks burning with humiliation when he opened his briefcase to find them lying there.  She knew what thoughts would pass through his mind, the feelings that would course at speed through his body.  She knew the flash of desire, longing and needing that would reflect in his darkened eyes. 

He walked into the office, greeting his colleagues as he did so, placing the briefcase onto his desk, he opened it while talking to his PA.  As he talked to her, he reached into his brief case to grab the file they were discussing, except his hands found a soft silk.  He felt his cheeks begin to burn as his as he ran his fingers gently over the material.

His eyes began to darken, his body began to react, just as she had known that it would.  He shoved the panties into his pocket and excused himself briefly from the room.  Now that he was alone, he pulled out the silk, her panties. Raising it up to his nose.  He could smell her.  Her scent was there, strong, fragrant yet delectably and undeniably her.

He inhaled deeply, smelling her it made him groan out loud as his hand found its way to his hardening cock.  Her panties, not even her, had an effect on him.  He bunched them up in his hand, drawing in every part of her, before placing them back into his pocket.

He didn't even return to the office, instead calling his PA on his phone as he hastily made his way back to the car.  He knew she would be at home, waiting. And as he smiled at the thought of her, he knew that the spell she had cast on him lured him back.

May not be easy . . .BUT

IT may not be easy, turning the pages - taking the step.  

I know that in what I wrote HERE  that it may have come across in my words that I didn't want to turn the pages, that I was happy to stay where I was . . .where I am.  That I am not willing, wanting, or desiring to take a step.

I didn't mean that at all. 

I know that I want to turn the pages, change the shoes, the story to create and unfurl, for things to be different.  To take that step and many beyond it.   In the words of Martin Luther King "You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step."

It doesn't mean it isn't a big step - it is!  But knowing it is a big step doesn't mean that I do not want to take it.

I do.

And that I am very sure about.

Nothing.

"There's no such thing as nothing. In every nothing there is a something. In fact there could be everything" Libba Bray - Going Bovine

Nothing IS something, after all. 

Even if we are "nothing" we are still something.

Poor, cheap and bad philosophy maybe and yet maybe there's a grain of truth to it. You'll probably dismiss it and insist, "No, I am nothing." And yet there you sit, in front of the computer, existing.

I mean in a world where things that don't exist actually DO exist by virtue of thinking of them...how can we, you, I or anyone deny the existence of such a truly physical object? (Sorry to call you an object, but you know (hopefully!) what I mean...)

And yet, even if "nothing" does exist by such a definition, it isn't what I want.  Nothing isn't enough, it isn't what I want. I want so much more. More of everything.

And yet, at times, like now for example, it seems as if nothing could be exactly what will be, how it will be and yet I hope that in this nothing, there could be everything.

It isn't as easy as it seems . . .

A couple of days ago, I wrote about turning the pages, of how you get to a point when you realise that you're stuck on the same page and have been for a long time.

You get the feeling that you want to turn the page to get to a new bit of the story - to create a new part of the story.

And then there is the conflict - the part of you that wants to rush through the new chapters to see what unfurls.  Not in a rush to reach "the end" because, that's not really a place that you want to rush to ya know?

I mean, you don't want to get to the end, but you do want to turn the pages, for the chapters to happen,  and you want it to happen now, and it isn't happening fast enough or how you want to, and its frustrating - as if the pages are a little stuck together . . .

But while on one hand you want those chapters to fly through, to play out at full speed, the other hand is scared to even look at the title on the next page, scared of reading the first sentence.  Fearful of what it may bring and all of a sudden, the page that you were on, didn't seem so bad at all.

In fact, it felt like home. It felt safe and comfortable and a pretty alright place to be.

And maybe, just maybe, it is better to stay there.

Better to stay in the place which you know, the comfort, the safety of where you were.  Knowing the equilibrium, knowing the balance, knowing of what there was, and what there is.  Not having to step outside of that zone of comfort, not stepping into the new, or the unknown. 

It is a bit like being in a pair of your favourite old boots, knowing that they fit, knowing that they won't pinch or hurt, that you can walk safely in them, that you won't fall on your ass on a slippy path, that they won't let you down because they just "fit".

And yet, turning that new page is like putting on a new pair of heels.

Shoes not yet broken in, shoes which are new, which make you teeter when you walk, that you walk out with trepidation and an uncertainty because you aren't quite sure of your step, just in case you slip over and take a hard fall.  Just in case you hit the ground. Just in case it's all going to go wrong. Or fail. Or hurt.

And taking off those faithful boots isn't easy.

Putting on the new shoes is even harder, because, I mean, it's a risk. Putting them on, in case they hurt, in case you slip, in case you fall - it's a risk ya know.  And it isn't as easy as it seems changing shoes.  It isn't easy taking off the old pair of boots, just as it isn't easy to turn the pages for the new chapters. 

But there is something, just something that makes you wonder, makes you question whether you're ready for a new pair of shoes, whether you're ready for a new chapter, even if you know deep down that you are.  No matter how confident you maybe in yourself, it is a step. A big step.

Taking that step - regardless of how much you want to, need to, desire to or long to!

It isn't as easy as it seems.

Beast

I don't  want to touch you with gentle hands

Or talk to your with a soft gentle voice.

I don't want to look at you with softness or love.

I want you to see my darkness. To pull you into

the dark and depraved. I want you to feel the desires

that engulf me, overwhelm me, that fills my veins.

The ones that exist in the darkest corners of my psyche.

I want to strip you bare. Taking down the walls that keep you safe.

I want you to feel what I do; as I do. Battling against a

darkness and desire that takes you down to the lowest of places.

I want to rape your body, to rape your mind.

To hurt your heart with cruel words that squeeze it

with their harshness. I want my hands to tear at your your body,

raking nails over the softness of your naked flesh.

Taking you, hurting you, marking you right through to

the depths of you, through to your soul.

I want you to feel the beast that lives inside of me, to see it,

feel it, crave it. Love it. To open the door of its cage,

to set it free, so that it can be unleashed upon you.

You opening the door to be a willing victim. A victim,

to be taken, broken. And yet still beg for more.

Broken Dream

Your text in the early hours of the morning woke me. 

Woke me from a wonderful and deliciously wicked dream that when I looked at your words, my body was already tingling, was already throbbing, desiring, longing, craving.

I almost had to stop for a moment to check that it had in fact been a dream, the arousal of my body, the way that I was feeling was so real, so deeply felt, that it was hard to believe that that arousal could come from a dream.

And I couldn't help but drift back to the images that had been within my dream only moments before . . .as hands touch, as fingers make their way into the warmth and wetness that the dream created.  I find myself in that moment. Hot. Wet. Aroused.


But I want to go back to that dream.
To you.
To us.

Awaken

What is it that entices me? That draws me in? That pulls me in like metal to a magnet? The look of his eyes, the way that he smiles? The intoxicating heady aroma that fills my nose when I breathe in deeply.  There's a pull, a draw, an allure that captivates me.

It awakens the beast. He awakens the beast,  awakens the darker need in me.  I long to see his beautiful face stained with tears. I long to see the smile upon his face disappear with the gasps, cries and screams. I long to feed my fingers through his hair pulling him closer, the force pulling his hair and his scalp towards me.  The beast taking its skin, mauling his flesh, leaving red nail marks as they claw at his nakedness.  The desire for him to be on his knees, face pressed tight to my cunt as his tongue ravishes, devouring my aching flesh, releasing the built up passion from my body to his mouth.

I can feel his devotion, his love, his passion as my body tightens with the need.

He entices me. Draws me in.

Awakens me.

Silenced

A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.

Ingrid Bergman

I silence your words with my mouth. 

Kissing you deeply, biting your lips until I can feel your body begin to recoil with the pain. The sharp intake of breath willing me to kiss you harder, urging me to hurt you more, pushing me on, pushing you deeper.

The back of my hand impulsively comes across your face, knocking you back and I watch as the depths of your brown eyes began to glaze over, as you fall deeper and deeper in the dark space that you go to, where nothing else takes you.

I love to watch you as you process the sting from my hand, the pain across your cheek, your lips still stinging from the lingering kiss.  The confusion on your face of the lascivious combination of pain immersed under waves of pleasure, drowning in its depths.  My hands weaving through your hair, as I pull your head back exposing your neck, as I lean in to kiss you. Bite you. Each time you gasp it urges me to only to do it more, to do it harder.  It unleashes the beast inside as I want to hurt you more, to hear you gasp, to moan, to cry.

You attempt to touch me, to bring me closer, I know that you long to feel me closer, to bring me nearer and as I feel your arms pulling at their restraints I move back simply to frustrate you, reminding you that I am where I am, doing what I am, because I want to, for what I need. Not because you want me to be, or not for what you need.  A moan of frustration leaves your mouth at the same time that the back of my hand once more makes contact with your reddened cheek.

The impact of my hand across your face echoes around the silent room, your face reddening from the mark of my hand, the sensations of warmth and stinging coursing through my own body as you recover from the unsuspecting slap.  Your breathing deepens, your eyes darkening, greying like a sky when the moon eclipses the sun.  Your eyes glaze further still, shining like burnished metal, your body begins to sag and strain against the ropes around your wrists as you feel yourself descending into the pain and yet, the resistance of the rope forces you back up, forcing you to stay in a position that doesn't burn your wrists and yet your whole body is commanding you forward.

Your mind cannot process the predicament in which it finds itself, your exquisite eyes convey the bewilderment turmoil  that your mind finds itself within.  They display the longing, the hunger, the urgency, the desire, the passion and the beauty of your submissive depths.

Your eyes beseech, pleading before even a simple pleading can escape from your bitten lips.

I pull you closer, as close as your body will allow, your whole body straining against the ropes that bind you.  I silence your mouth once more with my own, covering your nose with my hand as I kiss you deeply, stealing your breath, taking everything from you.

Taking all that is yours.  Taking all that is mine. 

You are silenced.

Need...

"I close my eyes, inhale, and feel a rush of heat and energy that takes my breath away. It is the feeling of wanting something so much that it borders on an actual need, and the power and urgency of this need overwhelms me.”

… Emily Griffin, Love the One You’re With

And it is. And it does.

Silent Movie

I am sat next to him on the sofa, his legs outstretched they seem to go on forever.

I imagine them naked, my tongue working up the inside of his thigh, working its way gently until I reach his cock that I can see outlined beneath the material of his trousers.

My mind drifts from his legs to wondering how far down my throat his cock would reach, I am sure that it would fill me going on the bulge within his trousers.  As my eyes wander upwards, I see his eyes watching me appraise his body.  I look at him, feel my cheeks redden a little as if he can see the images that rush through my mind. 

Our gaze doesn't break, not even when you come into the room with the drink that I had asked you to fetch for us.  You stand there watching me, watching him, and I don't need to look at you to know what you're feeling or thinking.  I can sense the daggers flying from you to him, the rising jealousy coming from the pit of your stomach.  I know that you are hating him right now. Loving this right now. Knowing those feelings grow within you, make the feelings grow within me even more.  They go straight to the pit of my stomach, a flurry of excitement and deep arousal gushing through my veins, while your own body is engulfed in jealousy at the closeness of him and I.

You hold out the drinks and I am forced to break my gaze.  I stare at you, raising my eyebrows slightly.  You lower your eyes and blush and know what you have done and yet, you couldn't seem to help yourself.  You also know that I will deal with that interruption later.

You kneel down by my leg and I feel the grip that you take getting tighter by the moment, trying to draw reassurance.  I do not respond or acknowledge, instead choosing to ignore your tightening hold, as if you're afraid to let go for fear of forever losing all that you have.  You continue to watch me and him.

I lean across the sofa, leaning in to whisper into his ear "He's all yours" 

I remove my leg from your grip and stand to walk away.  From the floor you look at me, your eyes beseeching, searching for an answer, waiting for me to tell you to follow.

I don't.

You look bewildered, scared, dismayed that I am leaving you there.  You not being aware of my plans for you. 

Instead I walk out of the room, leaving you with him. Leaving the look of fear in your eyes, your reddening cheeks, your twitching cock.

I head to the garden with my drink, taking a seat on a chair that I know if I swivel around on I will be able to see you through the glazed doors. 

I sip my drink slowly, savouring the coldness of the liquid, thankful for the chance to moisten my mouth that was so dry from anticipation, from knowing what was going to happen.  The feelings that your growing jealousy sparked within me, my beast is prowling.  The beast is aching to be released and let free. I resist turning round for a short time, but what feels like an age.  I want to watch your struggles.

I want to see you.

And him.

I turn around on my chair, just in time to see you take his huge cock in your mouth.  His hands pulling you in closer by your hair, I see you gag and choke on the cock that is forcing its way into your mouth, the same cock I had only moments before, been envisaging down my own throat.

As my own arousal builds, I close my thighs tighter to revel in my own feelings, the ones that seeing you with him have created.  The ones that have gone straight to my cunt.

And I watch him.  Fucking your mouth. Complete disregard for the fact that you are choking and coughing and gagging on him every time he forces his cock deeper and deeper into your throat.  And I am watching him take you.  And I can see the tears forming at your eyes from where he is taking you.

You are Gagging. Choking. Taking him in deep, all of him.

It is like watching a most beautiful silent movie.  His hands tearing at your hair, forcing you onto him.  Forcing himself deeper in to you.  His own arousal as he approaches and releases his own orgasm.  A scene played out from start to finish.  A most beautiful scene.

I see him lean into you, whisper something in your ear, while making himself decent.  He turned, looked at me through the window, a nod. A smile. And he leaves.

I go back into the room you are still on the floor where I left you.  Where he left you.

Exhausted. Drained. Spent. 

I kiss you gently on the forehead and wait for you to come back to me, waiting for you to catch your breath.

Holding you close as you collapse into me, your arms gripping tightly around my legs as I stroke your head.

You smile.

I know that we will do this again.

Turning the page.

There comes a day when you realise turning the page is the best feeling in the world, because you realise there is so much more to the book than the page you were stuck on.

Zayn Malik.

Pages have not turned in my book for so long.

Not just in the ones that I write myself, but the book of "life".

The covers have for some time, been firmly closed, there hasn't been a particular desire to re-open them.  I haven't wanted to.  I haven't.

But the quote is right.

There does come that day. There does come that point when you realise that you are stuck on a page. Stuck in a place where you no longer want to be stuck in.  My day has come.

I don't want to be stuck.  

I don't want to be stuck on this particular page anymore. I want to create new pages. New chapters. A new story. A new book.

A new life.  

It is time to open the covers . . .




 

Sleeping with you

I couldn't sleep.

Lying in the dark, trying to fall into a state of sleep, forcing my eyes to stay closed.

I bring you to mind, your face, your mouth, your smell, your skin, your touch and sounds and taste.  The way that you once looked at me, the way I looked at you.  The moments of tenderness, moments of passion, beatific moments of vulgarity and indecency.  Sometimes just one of those things, sometimes all of those things, all of the memories remain quite vivid, lucid yet almost theatrical.

They may fade with time.

But those memories, each one of them, enshroud me in a cloak, a blanket veil. Warmth. Peacefulness. Gentleness. 

Sleep. 

I was the first . . .

I watched her face, the tears rolling down her cheeks, the moans and groans that escaped her beautiful lips, the screams that she let out as my hand went deeper still.

 

She was shy and filled with guilt and shame as she cried out for me to fuck her harder, my hand willingly obliging.

 

The pain on her face was exquisite, ecstasy swept over her body like an electric charge, as she came over my hand in a frenzy.  She bucked and twisted, as my fist plunged in and out of her, stretching her, feeling her.  I could feel her muscles twitching and straining with wave after wave of orgasm.  I didn't relent, not even when she stopped, wanting to force every last orgasm from her innocent body.

I held her when it was over, rocking her.  Stroking her hair. Kissing her gently. Wiping her shame filled tears from her beautiful cheeks as I whispered into her ear that she was beautiful when she came.

 

I was the first person to put a hand inside her. 

 

She was the first I had put my hand inside.

I crave your mouth

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

—Pablo Neruda



 

 

Patience

I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.  Margaret Thatcher.

There are lots of things that she has said, that I would not agree with, but this.


This is something that I definitely do.

I agree. I relate.

Patience.

Not always an easy thing to have.  I am not always the most patient of people.  But, it is something that I have been for a long while.  Something I am being until I get my own way in the end.  Because, I will.  One way or another.  

A lot of people say "All good things come to those who wait" - and yes, that maybe true too - but we have to be patient.  We have to wait, things will happen when they happen, if they are meant to happen.  We can manipulate things, we can urge things along . . .but I am patient.  I am being patient.

But I will get my own way in the end.

A life has ended.

They bury him today. 

Someone who should have had a whole life ahead of him.  Someone who decided that it wasn't what they wanted.

There are no words that can take away or ease someone's pain and grief.  There is nothing that can be said to make it better.  Just the heart wrenching pain that you feel from the void that someone's passing has left, the sense of grief.  The sense of loss.  But also the questions that will never be, can never be answered.

I hope, that he is at peace.

I hope that he finds the peace in his mind in death that he could not find in life.

A parent should never have to bury their child, it should just never be that way.  The pain and grief in her eyes betrayed the outer sense of calm that she portrayed as she told me.  One can never truly know what is going through another person's mind, to take them to that place where there is just no other answer.

May he rest.  In peace. 

You knew

You leaned in and kissed him.

It was dark, yet light enough for people in the crowd to see.  You pulled him in closer, lips strong, tongues probing, as his stubble rubbed against yours.

Those close by watched with mouths agape, as tentatively his tongue began to explore your mouth, my hand pushing on the back of your head, encouraging you, forcing you in closer and deeper.

The pressure of my hand pushing you to know without doubt what I wanted.

Your legs begin shaking as your knees begin to bend.  Your mouth working its way down his body.

You knew what lay ahead.

You knew where your mouth was heading. You knew what you had to do, albeit not really wanting to do it.

You knew.

It might have been.

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, It might have been."

John Greenleaf Whittier.

I think and reflect. Of what might have been.  Of what could have been.  But of what will never be.  And I guess, those thoughts are ones of melancholic sadness.  It is always hard to think of the loss of the potential.  Especially when we know exactly what that potential was or could have been.

It could have been. It might have been. It never will be.

  

Ecstasy

… here was a boundless sensual freedom, theirs for the taking, even blessed by the vicar—with my body I thee worship—a dirty, joyous, bare-limbed freedom, which rose in his imagination like a vast airy cathedral, ruined perhaps, roofless, fan-vaulted to the skies, where they would weightlessly drift upward in a powerful embrace and have each other, drown each other in waves of breathless, mindless ecstasy. 

–Ian McEwan, On Chesil Beach

The first day of November and a typical November morning at that.  Grey, cold and raining, not a day which makes you want to jump out of bed.

In fact, far from it.

Getting up to walk the dogs and heading off to work while the day was trying to break into some form of daylight was just not appealing.  The only thing I was thankful for was that I wasn't having to leave anyone else there . . .otherwise it would have made it indubitably harder to have left.

It is just one of those days where you just want to stay wrapped up in the warmth of the duvet, languishing as the day slowly ticks by.  A day where the minutes pass so slowly, a day where you just want to stay in bed and fuck to the sound of the rain against the window, or in tune to the thunderstorm as it passes overhead.

A day to kiss and cuddle, chat and laugh, drinking hot chocolate, dunking biscuits.

A day to lounge, to stay warm, getting up on a November morning is not my idea of fun. It's a day to spend it with you, a day for teasing, moments of gentle intimacy and tenderness.

It's a day to curl up and read a book or watch a movie, taking a break every so often just to fuck a little bit more.

Passion

It lies in all of us.
Sleeping, waiting and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir.
Open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us, guides us.
Passion rules us all and we obey.
What other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments.
The joy of love,the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear.
If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace but,
we would be hollow.
Empty rooms shuttered and dank.
Without passion we’d be truly dead.

Joss Whedon