Waxed and Ready

waxed-and-ready

“I am ready,” and I press my face into the sheets.  “Sit up for me, let me run my hands over your arms, your breasts.”

I obey, silently lifting myself from the pillow.  “Take me,” I whisper.

She cups my breasts, still raw after being waxed, “So smooth,” she says.  “Thank you,” she adds.

Gently, now, ever so gently, she pushes me back down onto the bed.  She knew my body better than I knew it myself.  I feel a finger inside me, probing, ever so slowly, and as I relax she tugs up on the inside of me.  “Am I big enough for you?” she asks.  But that does not matter to me at all.

She is behind me now, as I press my face into the pillow once more, this soft, blissful pillow.  She masturbates her cock.  As if it were not hard enough, or large enough.  Yes, she is slowly masturbating her cock.  See, I know this, even though I cannot see her doing it.  And then, as I wait, as I relax even more, she enters me.

I sigh so quietly that even she cannot hear it.  “Hold me,” I say.

Slightly put off her rhythm, by my talking, she says, “What?”

“Hold me.  Love me!”

My entire body hungers for her.  Love me, hold me, protect me.  Let this embrace last forever!

Urgently now, I whisper just that little bit more loudly, “Own me, take me, and take me completely!”

For I am yours!

 

Head

Scented unsteadiness tears the air

While the thunder waits

And waits for us to notice.  It waits

As we bait each other with talk

Talk, talk, talk!  Mere words instead

Of feelings.  We use our head to clear

The air.  But we hear still that other sound

That dull hum beneath the street

We walk, silent, dark, arms swinging

Quiet, alongside. Each alone.

 

Lost, we walk the drift of strangers

Are those your hands which hold papers,

Lighters, promises, lies?  Or mine?

The hands pass one to another,

Mine, yours, someone, anyone:

Father to friend, and each to each,

They could never know.  Where are they going,

Where would they?  They are done

Each and every one.

 

Human Punching Bag

I love being punched.  Bullied at school, they used to punch me sometimes. I was afraid in those days.  But later, as I grew stronger, I was able to be punched in more places, not just my arms, my legs.  No, eventually, I was able to be punched in my chest, my stomach.  Until I was black with bruises.  How I loved my bruises!  I am the human punching bag. And you can beat me as much as you like!