I want you to come here

I want you to come here. I want you to open the door and come here. I want you to pad across the floor and slip into bed with me quickly enough to not let cold air in or hot air out. I want to feel your warm breath like a familiar breeze in my hair. I want you to doze off, and I want to stay awake because I can hear our breath in time, feel our bodies align. I want this to be the only thing on our to do list, I want to forget the time, to forget clocks and forget how the sun comes and leaves again. I want to forget that we are always arriving and leaving when I pull on your shirt in the evening or morning or middle of the night. Look at you there, looking for it on the floor with all our other unnecessary and discarded clothes, and catching me. Maybe you would chase me around the table. Maybe you would pin me down and take it off and, in finding me naked, forget that it was a shirt you were looking for.
I want you to come here.

So come here and have me where you want me. You know how to do it. Your hand on my hip, you once said “I love that curve, right there.” and I hear it every time. Trace your fingers across my tummy, the little dip of my belly button. Find out things you already know about me, twist me between two fingers and laugh at my reaction, let me hate you. Let me whisper “fuck you.” and laugh and look at your smile. Fuck you. Let me fall into your smile and kiss you. I want to feel your hand in my hair, I want you to let it run between your hands like sand from and hourglass. I want you to grip it and tilt my head back and kiss my throat, my jaw line, my nose and let out a little laugh. My mouth. To feel the weight of you on me. I want you to come here.

Wrap your hand round my throat, Go on, I want you to. I told you, have me where you want me. Don’t stroke me. I don’t want you to. Not now. Grab me by both arms and turn me over. Massage me if you like, but be rough, grab at me like you’ll lose me of you don’t. Leave marks on my back. I want you to.
So do it, wrap your hand around my throat and fuck me. Don’t let me come. Be mean to me. Turn me over and let me watch you tease me. Let me tremble and then make me stop. Watch me try and take over and don’t let me. Pull me onto you and hold me in a vice grip and move with me slowly. Hear me, but don’t let me come. Listen to the heat of me, but don’t let me come. Feel me try, but don’t let me, don’t let me come.

Move with me slowly and powerfully. Let’s twist around each other. Let’s move like one for a while. Let me wrap my legs around you and you can pull my hair and kiss my collar bones. Push me against a desk and we’ll knock everything over. I’ll tilt my head back and prop myself up on my elbows, you can scour my stomach and squeeze me as you fuck me, then pull me back towards you and kiss me hard somewhere near my lips before you turn me around to bend me over the desk. Push my face against the papers scattered there and crumple them, they don’t mean anything, how could they? Fuck me hard and quickly and listen to me breathe. I can hear you too and I know that sound.
We are back on the bed and you’re going to let me come. Your face close to mine. That’s not a smile anymore, that’s a goal written across your face. I grip the sheets at first, then you. You who push me hard, who push my hips down when they rise to you, and kiss my mouth as I catch breath. I hold on tight and you are letting me come. My hands on your hot back. I shake beneath you as I come and as I come you come too.

I want you to come here.

2011
09/26
CATEGORY
Cornelia Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
2 comments

Gardens

You wove me into the bedpost like ivy; my hands looped and twined like roses round the door; we were a garden of bright images; we shone in the light through the curtains. They were flimsy little curtains, we slept in the light, I was afraid of the dark; the curtains fluttered and bloomed in the wind. You wove me and the iron of the bedpost together with the silk of my scarf like a child plaiting daisies; I could have broken free, I moved my wrists apart, and together again; the doors of the prison were open, they watched me stay and marveled at my stupidity; they didn’t understand anything. They watched the shadows outside the doors, and in the dark of our little room the flowers bloomed and bloomed and bloomed, you kissed me, I kissed you, we knotted ourselves together.

You brought the blade into the bright garden, you cut the silk like it was nothing, I was naked before you and the world; we were the whole world; I was naked before God and the world; you were God and I was the world; I was in part of your making. This garden was of your making, you planted roses across my stomach, across my breasts and thighs, they blossomed pink and grew redder, blue and black and yellow and sea-green; you were better than God, you made roses like the sea sprawl delicately across the insides of my thighs.

We were the only ones in the garden; we were the first people, the first to do this and make this and shape this, you held me down, you lifted me.

-If I were a linguist, you said, your fingers tight around my arm, -if I were a linguist I’d tell you all the things I was going to do to you in all the languages in the world.

It was the Tower of Babel, we were bound to fall eventually, they said it couldn’t last, they marveled at my stupidity. We spoke with one tongue, one voice; we cried out together, we exhaled and inhaled and breathed the same hot damp air of ourselves; you moved and tasted me like the honeysuckle, the water gathered in the roses after rain. We were a garden after rain, you knotted me to the bed like ivy, you let the storms break over and over, let the clouds clap and the thunder roll and the lightening strike, your forked tongue, perhaps you were the snake in the grass, the tempting, the serpent; you were all knowledge and I was at once all innocent and all knowing, I knew everything, I moved underneath you and above you, you moved over me like a hawk, under me like a cobra, you were all flora and fauna, you wove me from flowers, you were God and Adam and the snake in one, and I was a child in the garden; you wove me in and out of the bed, the bruises on my arm blossomed for days after we had fallen, the Tower was falling, we fell, headlong.

We fell headlong, headstrong into a garden of our own devising, you pinned me down, I was a butterfly in a glass case and in the blue of the paper backing I saw infinity; the sea, and the thousand thousand million grains of sand, you held me like eternity in the palm of your hand, you spun cobwebs with the lightness of your bitten fingertips from my throat to my collar, the tips of my breasts (your darting tongue, you were the serpent), my stomach, my hipbones, my thighs, the insides of my thighs, your fingers carving new shapes from the clay that I was, your fingers hollowing me out like a gourd to fill me with all the need of a garden that has waited for rain, spirals and circles; when I was a child I made vessels from the clay by the riverbank, we shaped it, you shaped me, I was the child in the garden, I knew nothing, and I knew everything.

You told me what you were going to do, you told me in the one language we had, it could have been every language.

You brought the blade into the bedroom. You cut my blouse like it was made of air, you bit me, you sucked the honey from the flowers of the nettles; the little white cowbells that the children knew to be good; I knew you were good. You bit me from my hip to my collarbone, you bit my stomach, bit the soft skin of my neck, bit my breasts; your teethmarks stayed for days, you shaped me in the garden.

You kissed me everywhere; you cut my bonds and I kissed you, I sucked your fingers for the last edges of nectar, I bit your fingers hard, you looked appalled, oh, you innocent, innocent. You were just a boy and I was everything, I was the Earth and I had eaten from the tree of knowledge, I knew everything, I kissed you, I watched your face, you swore, you breathed. I sucked your fingers, kissed your chest, all mouth and hands, I breathed you in, you were all lost in me, I was a whole garden wild with summer; everything was atangle, the opium poppies were pink and purple, the buddleia grew in knots; you had a fistful of my hair to pretend you were in charge but you were not, you were just a boy. I kissed you, I swallowed you whole, the universe in the back of my throat, like a little God, I had the power to create and destroy, you were lost to me, I was the white witch under the poppies, naked under the curtains on the little bed we slept in, you were lost, you were lost, you found yourself and fucked me there on the little bed, the garden and the walls of our garden, the curtains billowing and blooming, you fucked me with everything and I held you with everything and I was everything, your hands made ring-a-roses bruises on the tops of my arms, fingerprint bruises on my arms and hips as you held me and fucked me and kissed me and bit me and fucked me; we were innocence and experience and something everything in between; you moved in the spaces you had left, the places you had hollowed; I raised myself to you like a pagan to an altar, like a flower to the sun; we moved together, we were one, we spoke with one tongue, one voice, we were one, we were one, we were one, we were one, the cut and thrust of the blade in the garden, the tongue of the serpent, the hips of the woman, the eyes of the girl, the hips and the hands and the lips and the teeth and the cock and the cunt, the elementals, the fundamentals, the oldest trick in the book, the garden was lost, the garden was found, we were one we were one we were one: the thunder rolled and the lightning struck and the garden was newmade with rain.

The curtains bloomed in the breeze; they were some light white stuff that was full of air, full of summer. We moved soft underneath the curtains. We slept in the light; we were full of light, and the sleep of a garden sated, and the sleep of things growing, and the sleep of the gardener; the sleep of the first, the done, and the roses blooming on my arms as I slept in yours.

2011
08/05
CATEGORY
Ella Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
Leave a comment

The Man With Corners

In front of a mirror stand a man and a woman, a boy and a girl, sometimes.

The man and the woman are about the same height, they have similar coloured hair, his curly hers straight, they have different coloured eyes and different bodies; she is thicker than he is, all curves and river bends. He has edges, the turns are sharp; a well made, expensive, shiny Italian car would like to drive along his lines.

She turns to the right. She likes her profile better that way. She has always envied the right angled-ness of him. He was at once handsome and pretty. He was a gravitational pull – The Man With Corners. She has always envied him. He has always thought her silly.

(-You silly girl.)
He glides a finger down her spine. She is not thinking any longer about the lines she wished she had nor the faint scars across her thighs she wished she hadn’t. She is thinking the feeling of current across the wires of her skin, all laced, tight knit. She is woven. She is leaning into him, backwards, hot and weak. He is playing scales along her neck, her shoulder, her hips.

Her hips are the most musical part of her, perhaps, after the breasts. He is patiently playing pianissimo along the softness of her. They move with him, as if one thousand tiny strings from his hand to her skin hold them together, connect them, intertwine them, align them. The strings are impulse and blindness. The same strings, plucked, turn her to face him.

(- Pirouette little puppet, you are on this string and if I pluck so you will spin.

-Make me spin. Force me to tumble into the light, into you. Into the dark. You have a dark side too. You have questions for me and you say you do not understand my answers. You understand. You have a dark side too.)

He spins her to the ground. Soft towel, cold marble. He understands. He reads the notes of her like crotchets, semibreves and quavers arranged neatly on staves. He came across her in the desert, lying flat, covered, coarse and blistered. He lent her water droplets, he moulded her into music.

The piano man knows the notes to play, they slip from his hands like jelly.

The man is above her now. Breathing, quiet and short. He is stronger than her, here. Sometimes he is not. But here, in this room, between the bath-tub and the cupboard, between the floor and the ceiling, between her mind reeling and his… feeling – he is forte, and she is the thin black line he rests on.

He is above her now, his hands like a vice gripping, holding her tight, his nails forming welts, she is so soft, here, she is so delicate and vulnerable and she could disappear. She – the blonder, straight haired, one of the two – likes it when he treats her this way. Treats her as though she might vanish. As though she might not quite be real. Of course she is, he thinks, she is lying beneath me and sometimes she looks scared. He kisses her then. He kisses her when she looks scared. It works. They work. These two, beautifully here, doused in light and skin. She has to admit how well he plays the part. He grips her face hard between two hands, he kisses her forehead to keep her here, her nose so she cannot dust become, her lips for they are her lips, dark and red and bitten. This is the beginning.

This is the beginning. They are playing their parts well, the man and woman. He licks his thumb and plays, this mezzo-forte man, he knows the order. His tongue and teeth and lips know too.
The tip of the tongue the teeth and the lips the tip of the tongue the teeth and the lips thetipofthetonguetheteethandthelips.He stops.
He takes his licked thumb nail and finds her cunt. He uses his nail as it were a knife. He uses it with precision. She moans.
He always fucks exactly. She twists. He slides his nail along her flushed skin. He forces her legs apart. His tongue circles cruel tales into her. Her back arches, her hips follow and turn. She is lying face down, face against the marble floor. She wonders where he is. His face rises over her shoulder like the sun. He presses into her and she glows. She burns red. She cannot see it, but his face is red, too.

He wanted to be mindless in his fucking, to push into her fast and hard, to push into her, to take her to the edge.
She wanted it to hurt.
Her hips rose and he slapped her hard. He left one handprint, he left three. Red and thick.
She wanted it to be long and torturous, filled with brinks, with nearly not quite theres. For words and breaths to stumble from her mouth like they had forgotten themselves.
He wanted the crescendo marked fffff loud to be long.

She takes control, grinding against him like pestle and mortar. He whispers sweet everything’s, it makes her rough and bite. She pins him down and fucks him hard. There is sweat between her breasts and he kisses the soft skin there. thetipofthetonguetheteethandthelips.
She collapses into him and he pushes up up to the sky up with his hips she can feel her thighs burning up up up to the skies she can feel the bruises forming up up streaks of ink blue and black, yellowing at the edges up up she can feel him pushing up and pulling her into him pulling her in she can hear him signalling, his gulp, she bites down hard on his shoulder, he pulls her hair, she is still biting, there will be marks, she will have them too, and later she will inspect the lines he gave her and she won’t envy him anymore, he gasps, his head tilts up up, he sounds part-animal, he grinds and he groans and he comes.

There is a thin layer of sweat between the man and the woman. They can both feel it where they lie. He can feel it as he can feel the pressure of her body on his. She can feel it as she feels her own skin.

A boy and a girl, afterwards, shower. She washes him with soap. And he washes her. Their hands in each others hair, on each others skin, electric. He wraps her in a towel because she once asked him to, and he did not forget.

She has had her pieces picked up and sewn together again by piano hands.

In front of a mirror stands a girl, there is a boy there too, stood tall, war-like and young. Dark eyes, pink bow-lips and thick arcs for brows. A man and a woman, sometimes.
He holds her hand in his, where the river meets the road.

2011
08/01
CATEGORY
Cornelia Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
1 comment

In The Shadow of The Bed

@R_T_Times: I want to read smut about light having to choose between wave or particle, eventually choosing both and then having a threesome. Except in a Fight Club esque twist, it turns out light is just pleasuring herself in a horribly dark room.

The shadow of the bed is the shadow of the valley of death, and we are lost in it, the three of us, alive.  We light each other’s way, the blind leading the blind, taking eyes for eyes. Blind, but alive. existing’s tricky, but to live’s a gift.


We are a revenge tragedy, the three of us, and we are all knotted up within each other. Tangled in the sheets we are one, we are six-legged, six-armed, twelve-limbed, triple-headed. Three faced. Three faced but alive.

We are a revenge tragedy and it will fall to me, because it always does, to make the final cut. To bring the kitchen knife above my head and cut the Gordian knot. I’m no Alexander, trust me on that, at least?

There’s no trust, in the shadow of the bed. We are on the floor because it is too hot to breathe, in this little apartment high high high above the city. We are on the floor tangled in her white cotton sheets. We are on the floor all knotted up and naked, and my hands are across her, and her hands are across me, and her hands are across her. We are inseparable, the three of us, and we do not trust each other a tiny fraction. No trust, but there is love. Because we sans love equals mob.


We are telling jokes in the shadow of the valley of death. There is the dark one, and the blonde one, and me, and I am lying in the middle of them, and we are telling jokes.

-What d’you call a lesbian with big hands?, says the blonde one.

We look at her expectantly, in the dark.

-Well hung, she says.

It takes us a while. We are more innocent than we think we are. We hold up our hands.

The blonde one has the smallest hands. Me the largest. The dark one, somewhere in the middle.

The blonde one makes an indignant face, and runs her hand across my nakedness. Toys with a nipple. Spider-walks herself down and down and down, my involuntary hips moving to her.

-Oi, she says.

-It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean, I offer.

She looks at me. The dark one looks at me. And then the three of us are properly laughing, tangled on the floor. We laugh and laugh and laugh until we are all out of breath, and then she kisses me.

-I love you, she says.

-Love you too, I say. –And you, I add, before the dark one gets offended.

But the dark one knows I love her.

The dark one and I have known each other since we were babies, and I have been kissing her mouth with its startling white teeth and pink pink tongue since we were old enough to run away from our parents and make daisy chains in the tall grass at the end of the garden. I remember her in all her incarnations, back before either of us had hips or breasts or anything at all. I remember when she kissed Harry P behind the bike sheds and I remember her crying when Harry P kissed Lola the week later. I remember us both at parties, with borrowed fags and borrowed boys with bad haircuts and bad skin and badly cut suits, and after, at her house, taking off her make up for her, naked in the bathroom. I was not a beautiful adolescent, but together we were, perhaps. i like my body when it is with your body. That’s the dark one. That’s the dark one, and I have loved her all my life.

Possibly I am in love with the dark one, but possibly not. It’s very hard to tell. What would I be without the dark one? She is something within me, and every particle of me knows every particle of her. She is my personal time capsule, my fourth dimension, she is my past and my present and perhaps- perhaps she is my future. She is within me: I couldn’t tell you which of my thoughts are mine and which are hers; which memories are mine and which are hers; her long legs tangled with mine, I am shorter and fatter and shockingly white next to her, but I still couldn’t tell you whose limbs are whose. All cats are grey in the dark.

The sin of leaving the dark one would be the greater, perhaps. Unless the greater sin would be to abandon the blonde one, who is everything. My blonder than blondest star. Look at her. Look at her in the shadow of the bed and look at her hair and lips and collarbones. Look at her breasts with their pink tips and her hips and her thighs and the place they meet. Look at the way her feet arch, like little waves. Look at the way she proffers that joke, like a child at a party. Look at the way she kisses me. Look at the newness of her. Look at all the secrets which she keeps and all the secrets to find. Look at her, and know she is everything. She is all the dimensions curled like seashells within themselves, numbers five to eleven, or maybe more, or less. That is how little I know about the blonde one, and that is how much there is to find about the blonde one. She is everything new; she is worlds within herself.

How could I leave her?

Neither of them trust me not to leave them. I don’t trust myself, these Ming vases of girls, who are mine.

In the shadow of the end we are here, together, and the dark one kisses me, claims me, and the blonde one kisses my neck and my collarbone, and she bites. Like a little cat her small hands. She bites me. Purple ring on my collar that will not fade for weeks, and she draws circles with her tongue from my neck to my breast and down and down and down. Her smallest hands. nobody not even the rain has such small hands.  I’m leaning against the dark one, my hands in her hair, her mouth on mine, her hands stroking the blonde one’s hair. Like a cat and its owner, and god knows who is in charge with those two, my two.

Suddenly the dark one pulls up the blonde one, by the hair, kisses her mouth. Kisses her vindictively and sharply, bites her lip. They are leaning across me but they are not looking at me. They have their hands on each other’s faces. They are kissing like it’s a war, and I do not know who is winning.

Like a children at a party they will want a winner, and they will look at me for an answer, and flipping a coin won’t do, because it must be fair, and I can’t choose and I can’t choose and I can’t choose. don’t make me choose. the holy miraculous difference between firstrate and second implies nonth inkable enormousness.


No such gulf, between my dark and my blonde; together we are perhaps more beautiful than we will ever be apart, the men who would kill to see us tangled here, all young and beautiful and for a second it is almost as if I am floating, above us all, out of my body, and we are young, and we are beautiful. This morethanme. I am unblind, for a little lucky second.

We are young, and we know everything and nothing: I know everything about good old e.e. and nothing about the science of choice, and the science of breaking hearts, and the science of leaving; but as they kiss their battles if day has to become night this is a beautiful way.


The shadow of the night is the shadow of the bed is the shadow of the end, and from my watchpoint, high above all our bodies naked and beautiful and young I can see the beginning and the end; alpha and omega; the beginning is the word, but the end is science, and exactness, and with the precise movements of the blonde’s fingers spiralling along my stomach, and the precise movements of the dark one’s mouth on the blonde one’s shoulder, and the precise movements of my thumb between the dark one’s thighs, I see that this is just one creature in just one evening in just one world, just three girls in just three dimensions, just three points on a graph that started with the big bang and ends god knows where, in the shadows.

All italics from various e.e. cummings poems. Google is your friend. Go read.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/may/15/stephen-hawking-interview-there-is-no-heaven

Thankyou @davenight81 for the lesbian joke. 

2011
05/18
CATEGORY
Challenge
Ella Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
1 comment

S for Sugar

“@Chris5156: @missellabell Telephones. If there must be a call it should be incidental. Phone sex is too easy. Do something with curly tangly wires.“

All bound up in your exits and your entrances, all held on stage in the curve of the hall light on the phone stand, by the umbrella. Your telephone voice. Spell it out. Yes sir, that’s S for Sugar. You’re acting a part. I trace the impressions on the phone pad in the empty hall and I wonder what you wrote. I wish you’d come home. Curtain up. Curtain up, and you and I in the hallway. You in your suit and your briefcase on the floor by the door. Hi honey I’m home. A neat chaste kiss on the cheek. Acting, like I say.

Like I could stay in your arms a minute all chaste and good. Press myself up against you, kiss your mouth. Kiss your neck, bite your lip. You’ve been gone too long. Poor little girl left all alone. Press myself up against you, run my hands behind the back of your jacket. Untuck your shirt from your trousers and slide warm hands up your spine. Like you could be a businessman with me in your arms all chaste and good. Your hands at my jaw and throat and breasts and hips and thighs. I can make you forget your lines. Your telephone voice forgotten. S for sex and smut and scratch and split and swear and soul and slip and slick and the smell of sex in the hallway, S for sugar, my wrists all bound up with the telephone wire, the woman on the other end repeating, endlessly, Please Hang Up. Please Hang Up. The Number You Have Dialled Is Not Available. Please Hang Up.

Hang yourself up in me, fold away the things that are not needed, hang your coat on the rack, your hat on the stand, your suit over the chair, and stand above me, clean in your white shirt with my lipstick on the collar, like a mistress.

Bind my wrists with the wire, all hanging loose and elastic and spirals, bind my wrists and bend me over the edge of the phone stand and fuck me in the hallway in the bright bright light. Centre stage. I’m yours, and I’m centre stage. Briefcase abandoned by the door. You move within me, imprint me onto the notepad by the phone.  Spell it out with every twist of your hips, every bite of my lips. Every time you answer the phone remember. Good afternoon sir yes sir no sir three bags full I fucked her here I kissed her there I held her with the wires that hold your voice sir goodbye sir. S for Sugar.

All your good afternoons and goodbyes.

I am all bound up in your exits, and your entrances.

2011
05/16
CATEGORY
Challenge
Ella Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
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It is her fear

Look at her, so quite beautifully there, half in the light. It’s hard not to smile at the music of her, her curves and legs splayed spread eagle; eyes open loud, with the sweet glaze of sweat teetering on her forehead before I even dare to lay a finger, a tongue, my lips, to her. Before before before, the quiet before, those moments before the storm I remember most.
(I cannot smile, not with her there, all quiet and wanting and under my spell.)

I hold her face tight under my two hands, worrying my spell is powerless to keep her from disappearing; strong enough, sometimes, to instil fear in the toughest… in the pillars of men and women, in the carelessness of the one-night-bar-fucks.
(What if my spell casts her out of the room and into the light of the street that plays across the sheets, taunting?)
I bite her lip; it tastes like desire. I bite her lip; if I don’t draw blood this isn’t real, it tastes like desire and anger.
(Look at her sitting atop my heart, making me doubt reality with every sordid pump)
Perhaps the devil is in me.
I wind the rope (to keep her from disappearing) around her wrists.
Once, enough to make her flinch.
Twice, enough for tears to form.
Three times, enough to make her groan.
Perhaps the devil shares her with me.

I want to make her real, to perform my appellation, Hallowed be thy name. To trace with two fingers the lines of her pushing up to meet me. Her lower lip, bruised and raw
“I’m sorry”,
I think,
“Forgive me for I have trespassed against you,” but to say it would be to admit defeat.
To admit that here, in this room, now, that there is light in me too.
With a push of my thumbnail against the cut, I declare her mine.
Oh, she is being good today.
She is good. I pinch her nipple and she is safe enough to gasp, to tilt her head back, safe in the grasp of my ropes, my hands on her hips.
She is good. She deserves this; I make my way down, my tongue lingering around her belly button.
Her hips I bite, her thighs.

It is not the wrap of her legs around my waist which makes me want her, it is her fear.

She looked like she was fighting, fighting and losing.
Something in her bones which told her she was wrong, and I share the bones of her with this something. Bound in the heat of this room, I share the bones of her.
I am making cruel silver circles, figures of eight, figures of infinity, of the infinity of this.
Of my lips pressed against her, of my tongue teasetasting her (I am certainly temptation).
If there were a symbol for her and me it would be infinity.
Two halves of a whole, they said. What a horribly true cliché.
She fights but cannot keep me out because I am in the bones of her, in the bitter iron of her blood.
Infinity as I claw the soft skin of her lower back.
And here in this light, with my nails piercing her skin, with the dark rising in me like heat, something whispered this was wrong to her, with my now palm against her, the devil twisting tales with a slick serpents tongue, it sounds like the dark shudder of bats wings and the echo of a cave and she is scared. There were worlds between us before and now there are none, There is something she fights, something which made her want to not, not, not.
To not let go, not succumb.
Come, come, come… I demand, as my fingers find her and her hips rise the rise of forgetting what once was true.
Perhaps I am the devil.

I am finished with her; I untie her, kissing the plaited imprints.
I pull her to stand with me and for a moment, looking out this window to the sun, I forget the role I am supposed to play as I slip my hand into hers.

For my girl, as ever.

2011
05/11
CATEGORY
Cornelia Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
Leave a comment

Balance

It’s harder to describe her than you would think, my girl, my girl. She is all bound in darkness, even with the lights on full watt and the blinds up to let in the day. She is all bound in darkness, even with her long light hair a curtain and a waterfall and, sometimes, handcuffs. She knows I won’t pull away, and she loops the ends of her hair around my wrists and I am caught and trapped. To be bound in her darkness with her is a remarkable thing, and as she tilts my chin to look at me that is when I remember that I can call her mine, my girl, but that the darkness will always be her first love, straddling the little spaces between us.

She kisses me, a hand on each cheek. She bites my lip, and before I can taste more than a drop of the blood she sucks it clean and I cannot help but moan a little. It hurts.

My girl splits me like a deck of cards, clean down the middle, and arranges me on my bed, and I am compliant and good. I am a good girl, and she is the bad girl, and that is how things are, today.

She loops the rope once, twice, three times round my wrists. Once through the bedframe.  I am the good girl, but I am still the one in trouble. Silly, silly me.

With two fingers she baptises me, straight down, forehead (she lingers on my lips a little, and I am obedient and do not even flinch as she toys with the little cut she made on the lower one), the hollow of my neck, between my breasts (her other hand idles over a nipple, pinches it hard, my girl is bound by the darkness), across my stomach and down and down and down.  The weak point and with her eyes on mine her two baptising fingers between my thighs. We fit, my girl and I, the dark and the light. Day and night we are, and without her I am lost, and without me (I dare I dare I dare) she would be lost. The symbiosis of this and the symmetry of her blonde, and me dark, and the two of us tangled. Two sets of breasts two sets of legs two sets of hips and thighs and arms and wrists and hands. Twenty fingers. Twenty toes. Today my girl is all bound in darkness, and my darkness is her darkness. I am carrying the torch for us two, and I rise to her touch, obedient, lost.

This is the other thing about my girl, of course. She is all bound in darkness, and she knows everything. Every dark secret, and every dark moment, and every dark thought, and she uses them like weapons here, on this single bed in the light of the sun, and with every twist and turn of her hands and her silver rings I am a little more lost. She is good, my girl, good at what she does. Her rings are cold, and I shiver.

She kisses me, her fingers still idling, slow circles. Kisses my mouth, hovering above me, a silhouette in the sun, kisses my neck. Bites. It will bruise.  Kisses my collarbone. Kisses my breasts. Teeth. Tongue. I can’t help but rise to her, because she is the secret keeper, and she gives the darkness enough for us both. The darkness is her first love, as the light is mine (tomorrow, perhaps, we will remember that a little before I loved the light, the darkness held my hand across the road; tomorrow, perhaps, we will remember that a little before she loved the darkness , she was as light as syllabub and twice as sweet); tomorrow, the darkness is my first love, and it is I who tie her wrists and bite the soft skin at her breasts, and her neck, and my hands, and my mouth that make the world.

It’s harder to describe her than you would think, my girl, my girl, for she is me. The mirror above me, for she is me, but different, and strange. She is me yesterday and me tomorrow, she is my yesterday and my tomorrow.  She is the moment, right now, with her weight above me, and the iron in both our mouths,  and her nails in my helpless hands, she is the moment, and the crescendo, and the end.

When we are done, and she unties my hands from the rail, and kisses the welts on each wrist, we stand, naked, looking into the sun, and the street, and the dark and the light balance each other out, for one splintery perfect moment, her hand in mine.

Of course and always, for NB.

2011
05/10
CATEGORY
Ella Fitzginnygingin
Prose
Smut
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