Feels Like Home

“Feels like home to me,” he said, as she eased onto him, her hair dangling in his face. There was a split second, when their flesh met and all the lights in the house went on. Then, it was nothing but the thick warmth of exotic carpets, the smell of vanilla and sugar from another room, the deep ringing sound of chimes in the summer breeze. None of that existed, of course. It was all in his mind. They were, after all, in a tent. The sleeping bags had been moved aside. Under his back, he felt the roots and bark and cones and pebbles of the forest floor. The rising sun made the yellow fabric of the tent glow. He was surrounded by light, and by her. The wood smoke from the night’s fire had permeated her hair. He breathed her in, the most erotic of incense. The sweat from their late night entanglement had dried on her chest. It was as sensual and maddening as any delicate oyster he had ever passed over his tongue. And here she was again, insatiable, taking him in long, slow, strokes, her eyes deepening with each wanting searching grabbing touch. He watched her, watched the sleepy happy lust in her face, the upturned wickedness of her smile. His hands ran over her like a warm winding brook in the sun, swirling in eddies and riffles across her flexing skin. The river next to the tent rushed over the changing earth while she rushed over his body, moving and shaping his chest and hips. Yes, this was home to him. This was the place he had wanted his entire life. She arched into the yellow light and he filled her with his joy and happiness while the china in the cupboards and the mirrors in the bathroom and the windows into his soul were shattered and lying on the floor, all the musty memories and discontent and barriers to the world, gone. Amidst those ruins, there in the forest, a new home; her.

Her Hair

The thin line of her hair swam in the sweat on her stomach. It was there after the tossing of her head, the arching of her back, the deep gripping spasms of her abdomen. It was there to draw the boundary between her skin and her heart. It told her where his touch ended and she began. Sometimes, that was not an easy thing to know. When his chest was in her hands, and the wide cap of his cock rubbed against the door to her soul, she could not tell the difference between his flesh and hers. She drifted in warm clouds, verdant and emerald valleys below. The wind blew across her naked skin and lifted her in its arms. Every thought became like a tiny brilliant point of light in the darkness, and the point drove into her, again and again and again, raising her up until she felt weightless and free. When the white dove flew out of her mouth, it was her voice that it carried. And the mountain spring from within her burst, anointing his hardness with her love. And the hair, tangled in passion, fell like a protective web upon her, to hold her in, to keep her safe.

Feel

Lie upon the bone earth. Feel it moving about the center of its soul, whirling about the life source, about the center of its galaxy, rushing through the universe. Feel it breathe and crack and flow. Feel the light reflecting off your naked membrane, seeping into you like love. Feel the lungs of the planet exhaling across you, inhaling your essence. You are a part of this just as surely as every heart that beats and every leaf that locks within itself the energy of existence.

Saturday Afternoon

When he touched her skin, it was with the hot tip of his cock. Her hands, tied to the tree limb over her head, flexed and extended into the warm summer air. She wanted, so badly, to close her legs, to slide her labia over her engorged clit, but her ankles were spread and bound. With each light brush of his cock, she arched and thrust, her body craving more. He circled her in the sunlight, running his hard meat across the concavity of her back and the bone of her hip, along the gentle convexity of her belly.

When he touched her stiffened nipples, it was with the tenderness of his lips. He kissed her breasts, almost imperceptively, barely. Her breathing was sporadic and ragged, each breath forced out of her with the electric spark of each kiss. Thin lines of her wetness ran down the insides of her legs, cooling in the flowing breeze. She wanted his hands, his probing fingers, the smothering warmth of his body on her. She ached inside, anticipating the muscular thrust of his ass as he drove the long pole into her depths. Still, he kissed her and rubbed his cock against her. He kissed each dip and slope of her neck and shoulders. He kissed the satin underbelly of each breast. He kissed the firm terrain of her ass and the quivering lips of her open, groaning, begging mouth.

When he touched her clit, it was with the blinding, exploding, universe of his tongue.

Making Clothes

“Here, put this on,” he said, with a grin. She did. Slipping the oversized t-shirt over her head, she smelled him, his scent, his essence, his sex. Her nipples reacted and her lungs filled. He ran his fingers along the front of the shirt, feeling where the comforting downslope of her breasts met the firm arch of her rib.

“Here,” he said. “Now, how do we mark it?” He searched around, keeping his fingers in place on her chest, looking for a marker or piece of tape or…sticky note! He ripped off a ubiquitous sticky note and spread it across the front of the shirt. This is where he would cut it. He reached for the scissors and held them in front of her. “Hold still, now,” he cautioned.

Using the sticky note as a guide, he plunged the point of the scissors through the thin fabric, careful not to injure the delicate skin of her chest. Then, he sliced along, just under her breasts. She could feel the blade gliding along her skin. She barely breathed. She crossed her legs, then opened them, the dampness beginning to build. He cut a straight…no, perfect…line under her breasts, then around the side. She stood straight and unmoving, as if she was tied to a tree, as the scissor blade ran along her back and around her side to meet the bottom swath of the t-shirt, where it dangled below one breast.

The tubular remains slid down to her waist and she was left with the shortened t-shirt, his old t-shirt, now hers. The air flowed in from the bottom and licked her nipples. When he finally set down the scissors and ran his hands up into the sweating valley between her breasts, she nearly fainted.

And Then

"Did you cum?" she asked while straddling my face, dripping the white cream from her pussy onto my face. All I could see, from my vantage point, was her rose-colored swollen clit and the belly-soft undersides of her breasts. She moved her crotch above me, coating me with the product of our synchronized orgasms. I was tied to the bed, and had been for most of the afternoon. She had done it all to me. I was her toy, red and swollen and boiling, every muscle in my body exhausted from constant spasm and release, contraction and expansion. I had been rigid and flacid, sweating and chilled. Her soft spongy labia, swollen with desire, had left a trail from my toes to the top of my head. I had been coated in her sweetness, had felt the insistence of her nipples on my legs, balls, cock, stomach, chest and face. She smelled like every flower, fruit and pussy in the world. She had hovered over me like a bird of prey, all afternoon. The smooth glass dildo was her favorite tool. She massaged my insides, while sucking on me, building me to the point of constant, slow, seeping. When I finally filled her with the confection of my exploding cock, I screamed into her breasts, straining against my bonds. She bellowed into the air, her pussy sucking and pulling and gripping, spasmodically, with each thrust, until she collapsed onto my chest. She regained her breath, kissed me and fed me.

Lost & Found

(Photo by David Rolin)

When he touched her, he lost his mind. There were nothing but radiant circles of vibrating molecules emanating from the tips of his fingers to tell him he was alive. He was alive in a bubble, swimming in clear oil, slick and shining. Everything flowed around him, parting to allow him into her. And, there, he was nothing but nerve, conduit for the electrical charge that was she. She moved along him like light, all waves and bursting energy. They swam together, alive together, vibrating in harmony, becoming... a new mind found.

Secret Garden

Click, whir, click, whir... the camera spoke to her, guiding her to this place. "Oh, that's good," it said. "Marvelous, beautiful, sexy, awesome," it repeated, over and over. It was not just the roaming hands of her lover, the hot bulb of flesh between her lips, the thick magma flowing from her. It was not that she was in love or that his tongue drove her to heights of delirium. It was not the double-dare novelty of what she was doing at this point in her life. She had suddenly entered a new, unexplored, world, a secret valley full of naked men and tall ferns and flowers of intoxicating scent. The cacophonous calls of brilliantly colored birds rang in her ears. The flashing neon electric of butterfly wings blinded her. The moss was thick under her bare feet. The sun was pure and liquid on her skin. The air was sharp and bright. This was her Eden, the place she had only dreamed of. She was free and reborn, soaked with childish emotion. His cock inside of her led her to clear still pools and warm stones, in shaded groves of large leafy trees. His lips brushing across her nipples carried her into broad meadows of tall grass moving in orgasmic waves in the passing hand of the soft wind. She ran like a girl in this place, opening herself, laughing, squealing with sensual release, the camera gently recording it all. Click, whir, click, whir. "Marvelous, beautiful, sexy, awesome!"