(Private games)

With him I have witch-hands, fortune telling and mystery hands,
as soon as I touch it there is this electric wave, my lips against her skin it's even worse, they are in turn a country, a continent, a world, a galaxy, a universe that opens up,
Byzantium-on-Comet, ripailles, feasts and flesh feast,
He whispered "I love your skin so much" and I understood "I am so full of love",
but to strip the unspoken both are true, I believe, even though we pretend not to know what play is playing on the crimson-curtained stage,

Not a word exchanged since his arrival, he rang downstairs, I watched his footsteps on the stairs and then his long silhouette through the peephole, no need to ring, my door opened on the thread stretched between our pupils,
a squinting smile, his mischievous look to find me dressed-made-up-my hair before I became furious,
a stride for a reunion kiss, him so tall that he has to bend a lot and me who still grips my armored door that suddenly I push back on the fly,
BAM !
I embrace the thickness of the coat, scarf and sweater, under the wool the animal, and under the animal the impalpable of the heart, of the brain and the soul, stick myself there to lick them up and down,
ears-thoughts-toes-It-sex-Me-navel-Superego-ankles-desires-armpits-spasm,

My fingers which suffocate him before sneaking in, impatient then lazy, on her nipples, her lips and her ass, spread her buttocks and contemplate him, introduce me, leave some play then fold it brutally against my thighs, claws fastened to its sides,
it is so beautiful, upsetting and excruciatingly tender to take it as it gives itself, and he gives himself with so much confidence and ardor that you just take it,
my cock outside, my whole hand closed inside her bowels, he is my burning gangue, my scabbard, my prince quartered,
spin my fist in her belly, back and forth my arm, strong-soft-fast-slow-strong,

Claw my mouth,
kiss my legs,
bite my nails,
all his hairs spiky, her hurried breath and her complaints,

And the belt that flies and lashes hard,
and the screams, and tears,
and the tenderness of closed arms, the reassuring embrace and the pleading mouth "Again ! »,
and brands, long time.

Coiled against his chest, my witching hands flat on her face, I whisper to him that for me, with this intensity, this raw depth and violence, we achieve something other than enjoyment. Buried memories, perhaps. Radical intimacy or truth, for sure. The very heart of the turbine, eye of the storm, soul or something without a name, shared and tenuous, wobbling. We gave in and inside it gave way or moved, whatever this "that" that binds us together and transforms us. And it can scare, Yes, like an abyss that opens where we thought the ground was stable.

I think he got it, or at least he's starting to see it : hurt, it can also like strong.
What we call BDSM has so little of a game, sometimes.

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© Madame Lule, cannot be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.