Parade

“I don’t know about this,” she said, nervously, as he tied her hands behind her back. He worked silently, hearing her anxiety and saying nothing. It heightened the tension in her; it made him smile. He knew she wanted something like this. He also knew that she had no idea what was coming. He wasn’t going to give her a hint, either.

In the distance, the drum beat throbbed in the desert air. It came from all directions and washed over them like heartbeats. The ground seemed to move like their bare chests, breathing and beating, breathing and beating. His bare feet moved about her, softly in the dust. He tied her arms behind her, so as to make her breasts the centerpiece of her torso. They stood into the air, lovely and tender. When the bondage was complete, he kissed her. People walked by, talking, laughing, muttering, singing, silent…all in their own experience of this time. They barely noticed when he slipped the hood over her head.

She stood, naked, except for her boots, and the rope that held her defenseless. Around her neck, he fastened the collar. To that, he clipped the leash. He tugged; she followed. He led her along the streets. She navigated by his silent touch and the soft shuffling of his feet. She followed until he stopped her and ran his hands over the hood, caressing her head.



Although she did not know what to expect, she expected it. She expected the lips on her nipples, there in the middle of somewhere. She expected his fingers on her clit. She expected the cum of her running down her legs as she shook and buckled in front of untold and un-numbered strangers, there in the middle of the cacophony. She expected her cries of orgasm to be soaked into the sponge around her.

They spent the evening like this.

Ranch Ride

She rode off, every day, about the same time. The sorrel quarter horse waited for her, anxiously. He was gelded, but he still smelled her as a female. He’d paw the ground and look toward the house, flare his nostrils and whip his tail. When the sun was high, and the air lightly dusted, the smells in the air were more acute. The sharpness of her scent was strong on those days. When the back door screen snapped shut, his breathing quickened with anticipation.




“Hey, Buddy,” she’d call out. “Let’s go for a ride.” She almost ran to him, but didn’t want to seem too obvious in her motions. Her mother might be watching, or her older brother. Her work jeans rubbed against her skin, and her brown boots scuffed through the dirt, hay chaff and pebbles of the yard as she walked with purpose toward the corral. Buddy held his head high and waited for her touch. She would open the gate, reach out and touch his face. Then, in a deft move, she’d swing onto his broad back and, clutching his mane in one hand, lead him out into the field.




“Buddy, how ya doin’,” she’d purr. “Let’s go have some fun.” She’d ride him to the end of the field, out over the rise and into the swale. Once out of sight of the house, she’d stop Buddy and get off. He stood, patiently, as she took off her dusty boots and tucked them into the hollowed out trunk of the old oak. The sweat-soaked socks followed, and then the oily jeans. It only took her about a minute before she leaped naked onto Buddy’s back, grabbed his mane and “clucked” into his ears.




The warm Wyoming sun fell down her back and across her bare thighs. Her long, ropey, hair swished in the dry air in rhythm with Buddy’s lazy gait. The hair on the horse’s back tickled her between her legs. She knew what was hidden, at the far reaches of the ranch, and that only heightened the sensation. She took her time, feeling. The arches of her feet brushed the coarse fur of Buddy’s belly, his muscles seemed to flow like molten liquid under her bronzed buttocks. She felt her anxious desire building like a turning tide, flooding the inlets and deltas and estuarine flats of her shoreline. Soon, she knew, she would be the inexorable force and power of the ocean.

She didn’t know where he came from, or what his name was. Until just a few weeks ago, she’d never seen him. In this sparse and bare and all-knowing land, it was difficult to hide. But, she had found him in her hiding spot. She had discovered him on a ride such as this. He was down by the spring, lying in the moss and ferns, sleeping. Naked as she, he was like a golden god in the garden. His thighs were long and muscular, like Buddy’s. His hair was a dark, matted, mane. His solid chest appeared as a barely moving block of flesh in the dappled light of the poplar copse. She sat on Buddy and watched the expansion of his body with each breath and noticed how it made the magnificent emblem of his sex roll along the inner margins of a motionless leg. She was not afraid of this man.


When he awoke, it was calmly. She had dismounted by then, and was crouching next to him, wanting to trace the arch of his ribcage with her fingers. His eyelids fluttered and he filled his lungs with the sweetness of the fecund air. He looked at her as if she was an expected vision and, without movement or sound, he offered himself to her. To prodigious proportions his member grew, the balls drawing close to him in locked and ready position. She watched in amazement and greed and, when she could no longer contain her curiosity, she ran a tentative finger along the length of his muscle, to the expanding tip. It lurched beneath her touch like an animal. It was what she’d always wanted between her legs, and she straddled it and caressed it and buried it and drove it and fucked it, madly and repeatedly, until she fell beside him against the damp earth, a thin whiteness flowing out of her.



It was like this. Each day she would come to him. No words were spoken. He was always naked and waiting. She was always naked and wanting. The emerald glade absorbed her passionate wailing as the soft forest carpet absorbed the energy of his thrusts. When she left, she left him as she had found him, sleeping. She rode across the dusty fields, to the old oak, drew the scratchy fabric onto her still hungry skin, and trotted home, thinking of the treasure waiting for her the next day.

She rode to him, day after day, into the late summer, until the grasses rattled in the constant wind and the ground was hard to the hoof. Each day, she hid her sweat-dampened ranch clothes in the oak hollow. Each day, she rode to his waiting cock and brown hips and solid chest. Each day, her head spun into the clouds after weaving through the silent emotions of the forest. When he filled her for the last time, it was as if it was the last time. His eyes, wide and blue, searched her own and he cried out as if he was being eviscerated, his innards being poured out upon the forest floor. It was the first time she had heard his voice resonating above her own. They swam in muscular contractions and jetting sperm, thrashing in the agony of ecstatic release until she fell upon his breast, joined to him forever. When she awoke, he was sleeping as when she first came upon him in the spring. She left him that way, and never returned.

The Bottle

Ok, I’ll admit, I’ve had a love affair with the bottle for quite some time. Mostly, it’s wine that I like. I can drink a 450 ml bottle, hit the road, and go past “Go” with $200 bucks in my pocket and a smile on my ass. Sometimes, when I walk through the door after a long day of smacking my lips, I can almost hear that round hard honest mouth calling to me in a siren’s tone of squeals and low humming. It’s all I can do to keep from grabbing the neck of my lover and shoving that nerve sizzling liquid deep into the oceanic sinkhole of my lust. This ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around; this is passion all bottled up until it explodes like champagne in my face. I’m a winner, a champion, the best of the heap of the love-drunk. Go ahead, shove it as deeply as you can. I’ll surround it and lap it up, like a kitten in a barn full of squirting udders.

Holding Her Feet

He loved sitting on the couch, holding her small strong feet in his hands. Just sitting there, not speaking, watching the evening news, holding her feet -- that’s where things felt best. On warm summer mornings, they would sit naked together on the couch, watching Spongebob Squarepants, sipping on strong black coffee. The morning breeze flowed in through the open windows and doors and across their skins. Her small popcorn toes curled in his grasp and he could feel her distant heart pulsing against his fingers.



Her feet, like his, had pressed against the earth and felt its throb and buck and slow creep. They had carried her across thousands of miles of concrete, forest duff, mud, carpet, polished wood and sand. They had soaked in sun and rain, water and dust. They had pressed against flesh and flailed in the air. To him, holding her feet in his hands was like holding her past. He knew her better; he knew her secrets. When he held her ankles, or stroked the deep arch of her foot, or stabbed his fingers between her toes, he meant to keep her, forever.

Spring Alders

February 20! Who woulda thought! The Northwestern skies were as clear and intoxicating as good vodka. In the distance, Mt. Hood etched its way like a shard of glass into the soft belly of the morning sky. The sun was low but brilliant in the damp spring haze.

“Let’s take a drive!” she said, excitedly. She nearly trembled as she said the words, as if each word had a string on it that pulled her toward the door.

I was way ahead of her on that one. “Of course, but we need to find something in the sun that is sheltered. Let’s try the Wind Mountain Trail. We’ll just go off-trail and find a nice grassy spot. Wanna fuck?”

Her eyes sparkled.




We piled into the truck. Both of us donned shorts, an optimistic gesture seeing as how the temperature was still in the 40’s. The weather reports were predicting near-60 degree temperatures, however, so we felt confident in our attire. We each took a celebratory swig of Makers Mark and headed out for Starbucks. After all, what’s a day without a mocha?

After scoring the coffee drinks, we turned on the iPod and listened to Michael Franks, Allison Krauss, Boz Skaggs, Doobie Brothers, Sade, and other sensual music as we wound along Highway 14, up the Columbia River. We talked about everything; we thought about sex. I ran my fingers along her inner thighs; she massaged my right shoulder.

We made our way to the Wind Mountain trailhead, got out of the truck and started chattering and shivering in the icy wind that tore down the Gorge. In shorts and t-shirts, we were no match for the elements, no matter the power of optimism.

“I saw a turnoff, back a ways,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. It’s lower, down by the river. Might be a little warmer down lower.”

She approved. We headed back. A few miles to the west, we turned off the highway and rolled into a nearly vacant park. One other car, three people, three dogs. The park was a large grassy expanse, surrounded by cottonwoods and alders, that led down to the Columbia River.




We traipsed across the grassy field, toward the river. The wind was still blowing, but it was warmer. The sun was still and silent and reliably warm. We held each others’ hand as if we were exploring new territory and needed the support. Mostly, though, we were thumping along with our heartbeats.

We walked to the water’s edge, a place nearly as cold as the Wind River trailhead. Whitecaps blew off of the water, sending icy spray into our faces. Clearly, not a place of nearly-naked comfort. We looked, then retreated.

On our way down to the water, I noticed a thin trail that wove through the ubiquitous blackberry vines and into a thick grove of alders. I decided to explore the trail, and followed it into the rattling branches. Deep into the grove was a mossy carpet that rolled under a bleached log. It was there that I settled, my back against the log, facing into the sun. She sat between my legs and leaned against my chest. This is where we wanted to be, like this.

How does one explain the heat between us? The camp fire, once lit, was carried for over a year. The ember never went out. Every night, it lit a new fire. New food was cooked, new stories told, new life was born. We touch and the flames explode into the sky, sending energy in every direction. My hand dove into her pants and touched her clit. He legs parted and she invited me to play. And play, we did.




We became a blur. Pants came off, shirts came off, winter white skin radiated the sun’s heat back into space. We fucked in the alders, on the moss, against the log, beneath the steady warmth of the magic orb, with the whitecaps lapping against the rocks that have washed toward the ocean from the center of the continent. Her orgasms flooded my balls and nourished the moss, my cock flooded her throat. Finally, we lay in the sun, our chests heaving our breath into each others’ lungs. The alders rattled above us, as they will in the months to come.

Dew

Although the water that wound
It’s oxbowed path around
The vortex of your navel
Never touched where it struck
Out and fell instead upon
The arching need of your naked
Hip it was collected
By its tense containment
In the joyous pool of itself
Beneath a radiant moon

Mussel Love

She took a breath and felt his liquid course through her body. It permeated her and the itchy sensation of thousands of sperm drilling through the membranes in her body nearly drove her nuts. But, she couldn’t move, stuck there on the lava rock as she was. Her holdfasts kept her in place and she could only feel. She could feel those wriggling little bastards as they searched her cavities for eggs. She could feel the tiny explosions of conception and the warm energy of cell division inside of her. It was enough to cause her swelling labia and her testicle lungs to press against the confines of her shell and open her, shamelessly. As the waves crashed about her, the cavitating bubbles of sea air exploded against her bonded skin and made her gasp, taking more of his essence and the competing essence of a thousand others into her depths. In spasmodic response, she squirted her offspring into the ocean where they flowed in fecund streams, in search of bondage and the thrill of sensual ecstasy.