Witch-hands

(Private games)

With him I have the witch-hands, the fortune-telling hands and the mystery hands,
As soon as I touch him, there's this electric wave, and my lips against his skin are even worse, opening up a country, a continent, a world, a galaxy, a universe,
Byzance-sur-Comète, ripailles, agapes and flesh feast,
He breathed out "I love your skin so much" and I understood "I'm so full of love",
but when it comes to stripping away the unspoken, both are true, I think, even if we pretend not to know what play is being staged on the crimson-curtained stage,

Not a word exchanged since his arrival, he rang the bell downstairs, I watched for his footsteps on the stairs, then his long silhouette through the peephole, no need to ring, my door opened on the wire stretched between our pupils,
a smile that wrinkles, his mischievous air of discovering me dressed, made-up and styled before I became furious,
a stride for a reunion kiss, him so tall he has to bend over a lot and me still clutching my armored door, which I suddenly push open,
BAM!
I embrace the thickness of the coat, scarf and sweater, under the wool the animal, and under the animal the impalpable heart, brain and soul, stuffing myself into them to lick them from top to bottom,
ears-thinking-hair-that-sexes-me-numbil-on-me-chevilles-desires-aisselles-spasm,

My fingers smothering him before slipping, impatient then lazy, over his nipples, lips and ass, spreading his buttocks and contemplating him, inserting myself, leaving some play then bringing him down brutally against my thighs, claws lashed to his sides,
it's so beautiful, overwhelming and excruciatingly tender to take him as he gives himself, and he gives himself with such confidence and ardor that I enjoy just taking him,
my cock out, my whole hand closed inside his bowels, he's my burning gangue, my sheath, my quartered prince,
Twist and turn my fist in her belly, back and forth my arm, strong-sweet-fast-slow-strong,

Claw my mouth,
kiss my legs,
bite my nails,
all his bristling, gasping and whining,

And the belt that flies and pinches hard,
and cries, and tears,
and the tenderness of closed arms, the reassuring embrace and the mouth that begs "Encore!
and brands, for a long time.

Curled against his chest, my witchy hands flat on his face, I whisper to him that for me, with this intensity, depth and raw violence, we're reaching something other than pleasure. Buried memories, perhaps. A radical intimacy or truth, for sure. The very heart of the turbine, the eye of the cyclone, the soul or something nameless, shared and tenuous, wavering. We've abandoned ourselves, and inside we've let go or moved, whatever it is that holds us together and transforms us. And it can be frightening, yes, like an abyss opening up where you thought the ground was stable.

I think he gets it, or at least he's starting to: hurting can also be loving.
What we call BDSM has so little of a game about it, sometimes.

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Madame Lule, may not be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.