litote_convoluted: art: wait for the touch
wait
for the touch.
the musk of woman
in the air
mixed with her pale
perfume.
in comparison nothing matters
but the way
she glides
across the room,
eyes half-closed,
face streaked
with the moonlight
from behind the blinds.
her hands will you
to lay back,
she wants nothing to do
with your face.
she is slow,
there is nothing now
but the small sound
a zipper makes
and her clothes bending
to her movements.
she
is
slow.
nothing matters nothing exists
but her mouth,
a vulgarity reserved
for when she is feeling
her most predatory.
there is a warmth,
a pure moist pleasure,
that spreads through
your limbs.
you are lost in it,
as it climbs your veins,
slowly,
and now she is climbing you,
over you,
you are lost in her coal eyes,
slowly,
in the jungle of her hair.
you can feel
the soft flesh
of her thighs
over your thighs,
and the breath you exhale
is short
and hot
and moist.
she turns her head
as she lowers herself,
you feel yourself
slide easy,
joined in depth,
but the two of you
are not one.
you are separate entities,
contained inside your separate intellects,
these bodies are only vessels
for the minds which you convey,
and you feel this is
utterly important.
you raise your hand
to turn her face toward you
and she is riding you faster,
not hard,
but rocking steadily.
you are in and out
and it is building,
momentarily distracting
but wait.
she is not looking.
you put slight pressure
on her chin
but she resists.
and now there is nothing nothing matters.
nothing matters,
but she is an ice sculpture
you were designed to melt
from the inside.
you are the
embodiment of the
need
to
dominate.
her cry is small
as you push her
onto the bed.
you dont hear it,
you have her wrists
clasped over her head.
you are brutal,
you see her body shake
with every thrust,
and yet her eyes remain silent,
squinted shut,
she does not look.
you are growling at her,
these are primordial sounds,
nothing matters but having her give in.
she tries to pull her hands away,
you shove yourself into her,
deep,
and your grip is tighter,
she moans.
her eyes are open, now,
she moans,
you wonder briefly if it is pain,
and that smile
the smile
that is not you
takes up your face.
she is squirming,
and you are faster,
harder,
tears corner her eyes,
and you make sure
that every pulse
is to the hilt.
stop
she whispers,
and you have won!
but that is not enough.
nothing matters nothing exists
but the need to destroy.
you jump off of her,
grab her waist,
turn her over,
you are thinking about that other girl,
you pull her onto her knees,
line yourself with her,
you are thinking of hate,
and thrust.
she screams.
you insist, holding her hips,
she is in place
to please you.
you are thinking about the first time
you were in love.
she is sobbing,
and you are faster,
faster,
you are thinking about your first time,
you are thinking about your mother,
you are thinking about dead things,
catastrophes,
the weight in front of you,
you are thinking about the rage,
about the nights spent tearing into pillows,
she is sobbing
and you are faster,
feeling the tightness of her
the heat of her humiliation
the satisfying pleasure of her degradation
wrapped around your being.
you
are
a weapon.
and as you fill her,
you are filled.
you have drunken her in
as she has received the
consummation
of your triumph.
you leave her there,
a broken idol.
you have destroyed a potence,
the disenchantment of an ancient spell,
and in comparison nothing exists.