Dearest Larissa,
You make me write like no other woman has ever made me write. I just want to pound the keys in short sentences. No poetry. No metaphor. Prose stripped down to verb and object: Fuck me. Prose stripped down to two words: Cock and Cunt. Your cunt and my cock. Your mind and my mind. Your imagination and my imagination. Your lust and my lust.
Spread open for me. Spread your legs wide. I love to see hungry pussy. Damn, that’s a metaphor. Strike it. Just spread your cunt….and your ass open for me too. I’ll fuck you there as well. I love to hear women mew and moan as they get fucked. You've unleashed my lust. I want to unleash you by tying you up and subjecting you to tongue, toys, cock, fingers, more cock. Forget words. Forget talk, books, metaphor. Just fuck me for the sex, pure and simple.
In lust,
Sappholovers
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sensual Perusal
Dearest Larissa,
---I would love to hear you read aloud a favorite passage or two from something I have written.
---I would love to be in your company when you read a new story. I would try to include something that might surprise you.
---I would love for you to be nude in my company when you read one of my new stories or read aloud to me favorite passages from ones I had written.
---I would love to watch your eyes as you read. I would love to watch you moisten as you read. I would love to watch you play with yourself as you read.
---I would love to watch your eyes from between your legs as you read. I would love to unfold you as you read, unsealing the envelope to read your message for me.
---I would love to watch your eyes as you read with my fingers deep inside you, my eyes fastened on yours, my tongue licking into your soul.
---I would love to listen to you read my words, slowly at first, then faster, then modulating your pace, with my tongue attuning itself to your rhythm, your pace
---I would love to watch and feel you as you begin coming to the conclusion of my story....moaning as the seduction builds....panting as the action intensifies.....each word of my story, like each stroke of my tongue, taking you..... Oh, my God, I want to feel it so bad....You quiver a little before getting to the end. You are tempted to skip to the end or throw the story away, and sheath my sword deep inside, up to the hilt. But you keep reading.
--- I so much want to be watching you as you come to the last sentence. I so much want to be fingering you as you go there. I so much want to be tonguing you as you get there. I so much want to have you wrapped around in my arms as you begin coming, as if my arms were lined with sensors, connected to some seismograph, holding you, kissing you, fingering you, making love to you with my words, as you begin to shake, feeling all over what my words are doing to you as you take them inside your mind.
--- I'm watching you now intently as you approach the last sentence. Your eyes are smiling but they are also on fire. Your lips purse up in a tight circle, but then relax into a smile, and then a phrase of mine, or a flick of the tongue draws them taut again, as if biting into the lemon before taking the hit of tequila, your pussy puckering now as well, as you tighten your love muscles around a single finger, as if thanking with an embrace the pencil that had written the words.
---I'm watching as you quiver again slightly, as you stop reading for a moment just to catch your breath. You pull my head up to you so we can kiss, your own juices lubricating our lips. I offer to read the last lines as you might want to play with yourself alone, bringing yourself in the way you know best. But we return instead to our previous places.
---The story I've written for you to read is the story of man and woman, freed from the bondage of relationships gone bad and from the various misfortunes of life, now linking themselves together, like black pearls on a strand, through words, fantasies, desires, hopes, dreams, and storytelling. The story is the story of the adventure that led the woman to have the man's words in her hands and the head that conceived them between her legs. Here are the last lines.
--- I am watching and feeling you so intently as you come to the last sentences that I can almost see your pupils dilate. You have read a line that particularly excites and allures. Your pussy walls now open up. Your cunt a cave, your clit engorged, a fire before the opening of the cave, illuminating it, warming it, beckoning me to enter.
----I enter your deep cave with two fingers as I suckle your clit. Your mind is filled with words from the page. Your ears are filled with whispers from my heart. Your pussy is filled with my fingers spelunking in your cave, exploring its recesses, searching for the sources of its moisture, drawing designs on its walls, finding its hidden treasure, a spot marked on maps I've seen by a G.
---My tongue now teases the clit, like bellowing a fire, kindling it higher, its flames licking upwards higher and higher, throwing off heat every which way, your whole body now surging with the heat of passion everything opening up, the floodgates unleashed, your mouth opening as wide into a circle as your lips can stretch, a silent scream written all over your face, its color reddening deep, flushed from the intense heat burning up your pussy, breaths bellowing out of your mouth in short bursts like a pioneer blowing on embers in rapid breaths to ignite tinder into a burst of flame, a body that now wants both the fire and the flood--the final flicker that will ignite it all into a roaring combustion and that will bring on the thunder and lightning, the rain, the drenching thunderstorm that will pierce the high humidity, that will make the dry dessert of your soul bloom again in a burst of wild flowers, that will turn your pussy from the iridescent fire of black opal to an oasis.
Enjoy,
Sappholovers
---I would love to hear you read aloud a favorite passage or two from something I have written.
---I would love to be in your company when you read a new story. I would try to include something that might surprise you.
---I would love for you to be nude in my company when you read one of my new stories or read aloud to me favorite passages from ones I had written.
---I would love to watch your eyes as you read. I would love to watch you moisten as you read. I would love to watch you play with yourself as you read.
---I would love to watch your eyes from between your legs as you read. I would love to unfold you as you read, unsealing the envelope to read your message for me.
---I would love to watch your eyes as you read with my fingers deep inside you, my eyes fastened on yours, my tongue licking into your soul.
---I would love to listen to you read my words, slowly at first, then faster, then modulating your pace, with my tongue attuning itself to your rhythm, your pace
---I would love to watch and feel you as you begin coming to the conclusion of my story....moaning as the seduction builds....panting as the action intensifies.....each word of my story, like each stroke of my tongue, taking you..... Oh, my God, I want to feel it so bad....You quiver a little before getting to the end. You are tempted to skip to the end or throw the story away, and sheath my sword deep inside, up to the hilt. But you keep reading.
--- I so much want to be watching you as you come to the last sentence. I so much want to be fingering you as you go there. I so much want to be tonguing you as you get there. I so much want to have you wrapped around in my arms as you begin coming, as if my arms were lined with sensors, connected to some seismograph, holding you, kissing you, fingering you, making love to you with my words, as you begin to shake, feeling all over what my words are doing to you as you take them inside your mind.
--- I'm watching you now intently as you approach the last sentence. Your eyes are smiling but they are also on fire. Your lips purse up in a tight circle, but then relax into a smile, and then a phrase of mine, or a flick of the tongue draws them taut again, as if biting into the lemon before taking the hit of tequila, your pussy puckering now as well, as you tighten your love muscles around a single finger, as if thanking with an embrace the pencil that had written the words.
---I'm watching as you quiver again slightly, as you stop reading for a moment just to catch your breath. You pull my head up to you so we can kiss, your own juices lubricating our lips. I offer to read the last lines as you might want to play with yourself alone, bringing yourself in the way you know best. But we return instead to our previous places.
---The story I've written for you to read is the story of man and woman, freed from the bondage of relationships gone bad and from the various misfortunes of life, now linking themselves together, like black pearls on a strand, through words, fantasies, desires, hopes, dreams, and storytelling. The story is the story of the adventure that led the woman to have the man's words in her hands and the head that conceived them between her legs. Here are the last lines.
--- I am watching and feeling you so intently as you come to the last sentences that I can almost see your pupils dilate. You have read a line that particularly excites and allures. Your pussy walls now open up. Your cunt a cave, your clit engorged, a fire before the opening of the cave, illuminating it, warming it, beckoning me to enter.
----I enter your deep cave with two fingers as I suckle your clit. Your mind is filled with words from the page. Your ears are filled with whispers from my heart. Your pussy is filled with my fingers spelunking in your cave, exploring its recesses, searching for the sources of its moisture, drawing designs on its walls, finding its hidden treasure, a spot marked on maps I've seen by a G.
---My tongue now teases the clit, like bellowing a fire, kindling it higher, its flames licking upwards higher and higher, throwing off heat every which way, your whole body now surging with the heat of passion everything opening up, the floodgates unleashed, your mouth opening as wide into a circle as your lips can stretch, a silent scream written all over your face, its color reddening deep, flushed from the intense heat burning up your pussy, breaths bellowing out of your mouth in short bursts like a pioneer blowing on embers in rapid breaths to ignite tinder into a burst of flame, a body that now wants both the fire and the flood--the final flicker that will ignite it all into a roaring combustion and that will bring on the thunder and lightning, the rain, the drenching thunderstorm that will pierce the high humidity, that will make the dry dessert of your soul bloom again in a burst of wild flowers, that will turn your pussy from the iridescent fire of black opal to an oasis.
Enjoy,
Sappholovers
Sensual Music
Dearest Larissa,
Nothing is more beautiful in nature than a woman when she comes, when the suffusing bliss of orgasm overtakes her and the exquisite ecstasy of it all registers on her face.
I want my words to slide into you and curl up inside your imagination like fingers slipping inside your pussy after you have moistened.... after you have become petal-open. I want my words swirling around in the convolutions of my sentences like a tongue swirling around inside you, parting you open, now twirling around the little bud I would love to be kissing right now, as you are stretched out before me, legs spread open, back arched, with my hands on each bosom, near your heart, sensing you, like a seisomograph, as you quiver, as you breathe harder and faster, as you begin to pant, as your sighing and moanings ascend the scale in the octaves of orgasm, with my tongue now giving way to my cock as my baton to orchestrate it all.
I want to slip inside you deep and hard and full, and have you pull me deeper into you, and I will then respond with the most erotic and romantic act of all--a passionate kiss--and as our lips mate, the rhythm of lovemaking begins: I want to make love to you slowly at first, a violin bow taking you pianissimo, my motions getting every string inside you vibrating, and then as the pace picks up, you become a clarinet fingered, a sax blown, a flute kissed and whispered over, and then a drum.
Yes, when we join in for the crescendo, your thrusts meeting mine, the percussion instruments take over, my cock beating, pounding deep inside you. Then its full orchestral accompaniment, all your senses aroused as you begin to explode and flow, explode and flow, in pulsations of pleasure, a philarhmonium of sound waves flooding over a concert hall
Men, as you know, love women with some sexual initiative, and I tend to believe that women who take charge of their own sexuality, and know how to pursue it and achieve pleasure and happiness, are the one's most capable of multiple orgasms and the height of bliss in the bedroom (or outdoors).
For my own pleasure, I sometimes love a woman on top, teasing me long, squeezing me slow, making love to be fast and hard, facing me, then turning around, pivoting on my cock, and doing it again, teasing me slow, rising up and down slowly, burying my cock in her cunt, and then slowly lifting herself off until I am almost outside of her, giving me a show, hiding my cock inside her and then revealing its full length and then settling back down on me, cushioning her spongy ass against me, her cunt just soaking me up amidst all of her wetness.
I also love it when a woman goes into a trot, and then into a canter, and then into a full gallop when she is facing me or facing away from me, as if I am watching her ride bareback, ready and able to ride the mustang, to buc the bronco and stay on, and then I love, after the woman has ridden herself into the beautiful sunset of an orgasm, pulling the woman back into my arms, my hands criss-crossing over her, a hand on each bosom, and I love her until she is a saxophone wailing and bleating, the only accompaniment the percussion of my fucking and maybe a hand strumming her pussy, as if it is the bass of a jazz trio, helping her come as I do my riffing.
For my own best pleasure, however, for the way I can achieve the most intense orgasm during intercourse, I will make love to your pussy with my tongue and then flip you around, get you on all fours, slip a pillow or two underneath you, perch up your ass on the pillows, spread your legs a bit, and then fuck you from behind, buckled in tight, getting to the verge of coming as fast as I can by fucking you hard and deep.
Then I will slow down and prolong it, softening you up, slowly and more slowly, until you feel as though you are nothing but liquid honey, barely contained inside thin paraffin walls of its combs, and until I feel my cock fully enflamed and engorged with love and rays of trapped sunshine, and then I fuck you hard and fast, loving the noise it makes when I slap up against your butt, increasing the tempo, a bongo player trying to keep up with Santana on the guitar, then its just all supernatural, a love supreme, ecstasy.
Yours,
Sappholovers
Nothing is more beautiful in nature than a woman when she comes, when the suffusing bliss of orgasm overtakes her and the exquisite ecstasy of it all registers on her face.
I want my words to slide into you and curl up inside your imagination like fingers slipping inside your pussy after you have moistened.... after you have become petal-open. I want my words swirling around in the convolutions of my sentences like a tongue swirling around inside you, parting you open, now twirling around the little bud I would love to be kissing right now, as you are stretched out before me, legs spread open, back arched, with my hands on each bosom, near your heart, sensing you, like a seisomograph, as you quiver, as you breathe harder and faster, as you begin to pant, as your sighing and moanings ascend the scale in the octaves of orgasm, with my tongue now giving way to my cock as my baton to orchestrate it all.
I want to slip inside you deep and hard and full, and have you pull me deeper into you, and I will then respond with the most erotic and romantic act of all--a passionate kiss--and as our lips mate, the rhythm of lovemaking begins: I want to make love to you slowly at first, a violin bow taking you pianissimo, my motions getting every string inside you vibrating, and then as the pace picks up, you become a clarinet fingered, a sax blown, a flute kissed and whispered over, and then a drum.
Yes, when we join in for the crescendo, your thrusts meeting mine, the percussion instruments take over, my cock beating, pounding deep inside you. Then its full orchestral accompaniment, all your senses aroused as you begin to explode and flow, explode and flow, in pulsations of pleasure, a philarhmonium of sound waves flooding over a concert hall
Men, as you know, love women with some sexual initiative, and I tend to believe that women who take charge of their own sexuality, and know how to pursue it and achieve pleasure and happiness, are the one's most capable of multiple orgasms and the height of bliss in the bedroom (or outdoors).
For my own pleasure, I sometimes love a woman on top, teasing me long, squeezing me slow, making love to be fast and hard, facing me, then turning around, pivoting on my cock, and doing it again, teasing me slow, rising up and down slowly, burying my cock in her cunt, and then slowly lifting herself off until I am almost outside of her, giving me a show, hiding my cock inside her and then revealing its full length and then settling back down on me, cushioning her spongy ass against me, her cunt just soaking me up amidst all of her wetness.
I also love it when a woman goes into a trot, and then into a canter, and then into a full gallop when she is facing me or facing away from me, as if I am watching her ride bareback, ready and able to ride the mustang, to buc the bronco and stay on, and then I love, after the woman has ridden herself into the beautiful sunset of an orgasm, pulling the woman back into my arms, my hands criss-crossing over her, a hand on each bosom, and I love her until she is a saxophone wailing and bleating, the only accompaniment the percussion of my fucking and maybe a hand strumming her pussy, as if it is the bass of a jazz trio, helping her come as I do my riffing.
For my own best pleasure, however, for the way I can achieve the most intense orgasm during intercourse, I will make love to your pussy with my tongue and then flip you around, get you on all fours, slip a pillow or two underneath you, perch up your ass on the pillows, spread your legs a bit, and then fuck you from behind, buckled in tight, getting to the verge of coming as fast as I can by fucking you hard and deep.
Then I will slow down and prolong it, softening you up, slowly and more slowly, until you feel as though you are nothing but liquid honey, barely contained inside thin paraffin walls of its combs, and until I feel my cock fully enflamed and engorged with love and rays of trapped sunshine, and then I fuck you hard and fast, loving the noise it makes when I slap up against your butt, increasing the tempo, a bongo player trying to keep up with Santana on the guitar, then its just all supernatural, a love supreme, ecstasy.
Yours,
Sappholovers
Eros & Logos: Seduction by the Word
Dearest Larissa,
I am listening to B.B. King's song "Hummingbird," the music carrying me off into imagining us, finally, after exchanging so many acts of correspondence, performing beautiful acts of incarnation, making our words flesh.
The give-and-take of our letters has aroused me, body and soul. Let me meditate more on this beautiful reciprocity we have created between logos and eros, seduction and persuasion.
Desire--even primal sexual desire--can be shaped by words; this is what distinguishes us from the animals; this is what makes possible the erotic. Animals are driven by a scent; their coupling is chemical. Fortunately, humans are not so constrained: our fantasies can inflame desire; our words can seduce us. The longings of love, the licking flames of a fire, the pulpy flesh of a mango, the red curvature of a tulip bulb, a butterfly contentedly opening and closing its wings as it dips into the many-layered infoldings of the rose flower, the bold manliness of the yucca plant in bloom--all of this can whet desire in a woman or a man.
My desires have been whetted by the knowledge that our words have created this beautiful menage a trois: our affair of heart and mind that includes a shared love of the English language as our third partner, a bond that gives free rein for us to pursue eros and all the delights of the life of the mind and imagination.
Confession: The sex that interests me is the sex that combines the erotic and the playful--the sex that makes us feel alive and so thankful that we are not just creatures of biology, driven by scent to reproduce, or just creatures of lust, driven by impulse to fuck fast with no feeling, but creatures of play and curiosity, inspired by the erotic.
The sex I desire is the sex that creates an oasis of pleasure amidst the dryness of routines--a sex that teases the mind as it tests the body--a sex that leaves us topsy-turvy, criss -crossed, head over heels, forgetful of time, mixed up about who did what to whom, lingerie and pillows scattered who knows where, the woman purring in contentment, the pleasure of sex suffusing her body with a radiant joy, and the man worn out, with no spring left in him and with his brains so fucked out, he can only lie there in wordless amazement at the remarkable forces of nature that conspired to give women the blissful capacity for multiple orgasms.
Erotic sex can be like a great jazz combo improvising together, performing a music that transcends the limits of a solo or duet: it can be a man and a woman playing together, taking turns, combining, making music that lasts far beyond midnight as we strum every string of the bass, as we riff up and down our bodies with our tongues, as we finger every key of a woman's body as if it were a saxophone, making her wail and bleat in the orgasmic crescendos of a Charlie Parker hitting over and over again the highest and most soulful notes on his sax.
The moment I long for in the bedroom is the moment when our naked bodies become nude, when fantasy on the verge of realization becomes the most powerful aphrodisiac, when a man begins to kindle all the little fireplaces on a woman's body, getting her so hot that she's more impossible to cool down than a Texas town in August.
My pen has been inflamed by your words that seeded in me from the first a beautiful vision: You are stretched out like a cat in the sunlight before me on a bed, and I approach you like a garden of flowers petal-open for the birds and bees to collect all the nectar, ready for my tongue to taste all the fruit, ready for the unfolding of fantasy into reality.
Somewhere, somehow, sometime I will join you on a bed: My hands will begin to rove, lightly at first, with gliding fingertips, in circles and swirls, above, below, around, between. Then my hands will become firmer, providing a light massage, a fondling, a little pull there, a little petting there, teasing a nipple around and around and around, gently squeezing your bosoms as if testing fruit for ripeness, beginning the caresses that will moisten and swell and part open your sex. Eagerly, my tongue will join my fingers, seeking out your nipples, turning them into sparklers of pleasure--little points of fire. Passionately, I will ignite the womanly fuse that runs like a hot wire from nipple to clit, so that my tongue, flicking on the tip of each nipple, will send little charges of pleasure rippling into your sex, reverberating deep within its walls. Teasingly, before my tongue or tip of a finger touches you down there, your sex will feel as if it has already been licked up and down repeatedly; the clit will be humming; and the most erogenous zone of all--the mind--will be fully engaged in the fulfillment of fantasy. My own desires will then take charge: I will do with you what I will. You body will become my secret, favorite playground. I will love you better than I've ever loved any woman.
Whatever I do and however I do it, I will kindle you up, getting you hot, wet.....bubbling, boiling, swelling, panting, opening, quivering, shuddering, and then surrendering to the most wonderful orgasms of all: like popcorn popping all over inside of you; like a bursting sunrise spreading out its rays over a garden of flowers; like a thousand little wings fluttering inside of you; like a summer thunderstorm with a mix of jagged lightning and thunder claps dispersing the humidity, refreshing the earth, and then clearing into sunshine as beams of light break into rainbows.
Maybe, then, after regaining our breath, I will wet my fingers between your lips and ring your nipples, around and around, as if each bosom was a fine crystal goblet that could be set singing by the circling of moist fingers, making you vibrate down into your stem. Then you would take me cowgirl, riding, riding, riding yourself into the sunrise of a new morning, surfing the curl of your orgasm for as long as you can ride the pipeline, then cascading down, like high waves pounding themselves against the jetty, one after the other, until, finally, you roll up on the beach, exhausted with ecstasy.
So don't fly away, hummingbird. Fly to California. Come visit me here, or I'll fly to you.
Yours,
Sappholoves
I am listening to B.B. King's song "Hummingbird," the music carrying me off into imagining us, finally, after exchanging so many acts of correspondence, performing beautiful acts of incarnation, making our words flesh.
The give-and-take of our letters has aroused me, body and soul. Let me meditate more on this beautiful reciprocity we have created between logos and eros, seduction and persuasion.
Desire--even primal sexual desire--can be shaped by words; this is what distinguishes us from the animals; this is what makes possible the erotic. Animals are driven by a scent; their coupling is chemical. Fortunately, humans are not so constrained: our fantasies can inflame desire; our words can seduce us. The longings of love, the licking flames of a fire, the pulpy flesh of a mango, the red curvature of a tulip bulb, a butterfly contentedly opening and closing its wings as it dips into the many-layered infoldings of the rose flower, the bold manliness of the yucca plant in bloom--all of this can whet desire in a woman or a man.
My desires have been whetted by the knowledge that our words have created this beautiful menage a trois: our affair of heart and mind that includes a shared love of the English language as our third partner, a bond that gives free rein for us to pursue eros and all the delights of the life of the mind and imagination.
Confession: The sex that interests me is the sex that combines the erotic and the playful--the sex that makes us feel alive and so thankful that we are not just creatures of biology, driven by scent to reproduce, or just creatures of lust, driven by impulse to fuck fast with no feeling, but creatures of play and curiosity, inspired by the erotic.
The sex I desire is the sex that creates an oasis of pleasure amidst the dryness of routines--a sex that teases the mind as it tests the body--a sex that leaves us topsy-turvy, criss -crossed, head over heels, forgetful of time, mixed up about who did what to whom, lingerie and pillows scattered who knows where, the woman purring in contentment, the pleasure of sex suffusing her body with a radiant joy, and the man worn out, with no spring left in him and with his brains so fucked out, he can only lie there in wordless amazement at the remarkable forces of nature that conspired to give women the blissful capacity for multiple orgasms.
Erotic sex can be like a great jazz combo improvising together, performing a music that transcends the limits of a solo or duet: it can be a man and a woman playing together, taking turns, combining, making music that lasts far beyond midnight as we strum every string of the bass, as we riff up and down our bodies with our tongues, as we finger every key of a woman's body as if it were a saxophone, making her wail and bleat in the orgasmic crescendos of a Charlie Parker hitting over and over again the highest and most soulful notes on his sax.
The moment I long for in the bedroom is the moment when our naked bodies become nude, when fantasy on the verge of realization becomes the most powerful aphrodisiac, when a man begins to kindle all the little fireplaces on a woman's body, getting her so hot that she's more impossible to cool down than a Texas town in August.
My pen has been inflamed by your words that seeded in me from the first a beautiful vision: You are stretched out like a cat in the sunlight before me on a bed, and I approach you like a garden of flowers petal-open for the birds and bees to collect all the nectar, ready for my tongue to taste all the fruit, ready for the unfolding of fantasy into reality.
Somewhere, somehow, sometime I will join you on a bed: My hands will begin to rove, lightly at first, with gliding fingertips, in circles and swirls, above, below, around, between. Then my hands will become firmer, providing a light massage, a fondling, a little pull there, a little petting there, teasing a nipple around and around and around, gently squeezing your bosoms as if testing fruit for ripeness, beginning the caresses that will moisten and swell and part open your sex. Eagerly, my tongue will join my fingers, seeking out your nipples, turning them into sparklers of pleasure--little points of fire. Passionately, I will ignite the womanly fuse that runs like a hot wire from nipple to clit, so that my tongue, flicking on the tip of each nipple, will send little charges of pleasure rippling into your sex, reverberating deep within its walls. Teasingly, before my tongue or tip of a finger touches you down there, your sex will feel as if it has already been licked up and down repeatedly; the clit will be humming; and the most erogenous zone of all--the mind--will be fully engaged in the fulfillment of fantasy. My own desires will then take charge: I will do with you what I will. You body will become my secret, favorite playground. I will love you better than I've ever loved any woman.
Whatever I do and however I do it, I will kindle you up, getting you hot, wet.....bubbling, boiling, swelling, panting, opening, quivering, shuddering, and then surrendering to the most wonderful orgasms of all: like popcorn popping all over inside of you; like a bursting sunrise spreading out its rays over a garden of flowers; like a thousand little wings fluttering inside of you; like a summer thunderstorm with a mix of jagged lightning and thunder claps dispersing the humidity, refreshing the earth, and then clearing into sunshine as beams of light break into rainbows.
Maybe, then, after regaining our breath, I will wet my fingers between your lips and ring your nipples, around and around, as if each bosom was a fine crystal goblet that could be set singing by the circling of moist fingers, making you vibrate down into your stem. Then you would take me cowgirl, riding, riding, riding yourself into the sunrise of a new morning, surfing the curl of your orgasm for as long as you can ride the pipeline, then cascading down, like high waves pounding themselves against the jetty, one after the other, until, finally, you roll up on the beach, exhausted with ecstasy.
So don't fly away, hummingbird. Fly to California. Come visit me here, or I'll fly to you.
Yours,
Sappholoves
The Swell: A Prose-Poem-Letter
Dearest Larissa,
I am beginning to feel the swell of anticipation, the moment when, out in the Pacific, bodysurfing, I can see emerging from a quiet surface sheen of ocean the rounding of water that is so suggestive of possibility, when I begin recompassing my body in the right position to catch the wave, knowing without even thinking about it, the feel, the rush, the joy of getting caught up in the curl of the wave, as it crests, and then propels me forth into a long slide, then into the froth and foam of the plunge down, the crash of the wave, a body tossed, a soul turned.
I love how, in our time together, we begin so softly and gently, but then it all coils up into such intensity, as I love witnessing your desire and need, and feeling my own, the stripping down, the kissing, the caressing leading up to the moment when we begin whispering and mouthing words to each other, locking our eyes together, your body softened and ready to surrender, you giving yourself up to me, in your own need to receive, to take in, to be entered and filled, split open and sealed up, my thick cock again at home in your cunt, then my desire to make you feel my passion, my desire, my strength as a man in each thrust so I can feel your joy, your bliss, your power, your beauty as a woman.
Yes, this afternoon as I write, it feels different, as now, on Friday, three days away, I can feel you almost within reach, and I like imagining, your own body, as you pleasure yourself now, feeling more craving within it, your body with a steady hum inside of it, just as mine has now, the hum that begins quietly and softly, but then grows louder, just like what happens on a hike along a stream, when we first hear the sound of a waterfall, and then the sound intensifies, with the waterfall becoming more and more present, with us conjuring up images of it, as it can't yet be seen.
I love the thought of you caressing your own body, with your hands, imagining them to be mine, taking your hands along the paths, the trails, that you want my hands to follow, when you can just give yourself up to me, letting me take you, the way I want to take you, your words giving me that sanction, that desire, that need, and your eyes so eloquently affirming those words to me, when I can look into them, after you've felt my hands feed their hunger to feel your skin, with no place forbidden, with no place too intimate not to touch, with encouragement to delight in each place, each curve, each slope, touching and caressing places as much as I desire, with fingers gliding all over you, and then finally going inside of you, feeling you there so intimately in all those ways so unavailable to a man pleasuring himself, giving you those sensations that no man can feel, except vicariously, except as they echo and reverberate through my own skin from yours, except as your feeling enters my ears from your own voice, through your own words.
Yes, my dear, take me to the falls, and over them: Fuck me beautifully, ride me reverse cowgirl, give me the visuals I love, the verbals I love, as I wrap my hands in your hair, and pull, tugging you back, making you feel it, hard, harder, you fast in my grasp, I in yours, the words streaming out of you, punctuated by my thrusts, our poetry of fucking, ribald, illicit, unedited, no net of rhyme, no holding back, each thrust of mine pumping more hot, lusty words out of you, each plunge of yours priming me up.
Then into the deep we dive, gyrating into the erotic spiral, the two of us tightening up, a long breath of silence before the cry, then the letting loose: words gushing out of you, cum gushing out of me, pleasure gushing through you, through me, through us, wave upon wave, the swells hitting their crests then curling, leaving us balled up and beached, on the sand, under the sun, in a curl of kisses, pacific.
The Swell
(Very Free Verse)
When, from empty sheet,
the sheen of pacific,
there emerges a rounding of water,
our swell of anticipation,
my body recompasses
bends to the pull.
It knows the topography,
of our cresting and curl,
the spiral and whirl,
of sliding and plunge
the froth, the foam,
our bodies tossed,
my soul turned
I love redirecting myself,
on this Friday,
three days before our Monday
for our wave, our riding,
roiling up white screen,
playing hooky,
knowing surfs up,
filling these pages
with words for you.
Soon again,
on the sheets of our Motel 6 queen
there will emerge
pacific unserenity,
our swelling and cresting,
coiling up into such intensity.
I love witnessing
your desire and need,
and feeling my own,
the stripping down,
our kisses, the touches,
leading up to the moment
when whispers end,
the two of us,
eyes locked together,
mouthing the words,
your body softened,
ready to surrender,
you giving yourself to me,
in your need to be entered, filled,
taken, split open, sealed up,
my thick cock
again at home in your cunt,
my desire to make you feel
my passion, my strength
as a man in each thrust
so I can feel your joy,
your bliss, your power,
your beauty as a woman.
Dearest Larissa,
This afternoon when I write,
it feels different, and I love it.
You are almost within reach.
I like imagining your own body,
like mine, feeling more craving,
the hum no longer quiet and soft,
but more insistent, growing louder,
just like what happens when,
on a hike along a stream,
we first hear the sound of a waterfall,
and then the sound intensifies,
with the waterfall becoming
more and more present,
with us conjuring up images of it,
as it can't yet be seen.
Take me over the falls with you,
ride me reverse cowgirl,
fuck me beautifully,
give me the visual,
give me the verbal.
I'll wrap my hands in your hair
and pull and pull
hard, harder,
tugging you back
making you feel it
you fast in my grasp,
I in yours,
the words streaming out of you,
punctuated by my thrusts,
our poetry of fucking,
ribald, illicit, unedited,
no net of rhyme,
no holding back,
each thrust of mine
pumping more words out of you,
each plunge of yours priming me up.
Then into the deep we dive,
gyrating into the erotic spiral,
the two of us tightening up,
a long breath of silence before the cry,
then the letting loose:
words gushing out of you,
cum gushing out of me,
pleasure gushing through you,
through me, through us
wave upon wave,
the swells cresting,
leaving us
balled up
beached,
on the sand,
under the sun,
in a curl of kisses,
pacific.
I am beginning to feel the swell of anticipation, the moment when, out in the Pacific, bodysurfing, I can see emerging from a quiet surface sheen of ocean the rounding of water that is so suggestive of possibility, when I begin recompassing my body in the right position to catch the wave, knowing without even thinking about it, the feel, the rush, the joy of getting caught up in the curl of the wave, as it crests, and then propels me forth into a long slide, then into the froth and foam of the plunge down, the crash of the wave, a body tossed, a soul turned.
I love how, in our time together, we begin so softly and gently, but then it all coils up into such intensity, as I love witnessing your desire and need, and feeling my own, the stripping down, the kissing, the caressing leading up to the moment when we begin whispering and mouthing words to each other, locking our eyes together, your body softened and ready to surrender, you giving yourself up to me, in your own need to receive, to take in, to be entered and filled, split open and sealed up, my thick cock again at home in your cunt, then my desire to make you feel my passion, my desire, my strength as a man in each thrust so I can feel your joy, your bliss, your power, your beauty as a woman.
Yes, this afternoon as I write, it feels different, as now, on Friday, three days away, I can feel you almost within reach, and I like imagining, your own body, as you pleasure yourself now, feeling more craving within it, your body with a steady hum inside of it, just as mine has now, the hum that begins quietly and softly, but then grows louder, just like what happens on a hike along a stream, when we first hear the sound of a waterfall, and then the sound intensifies, with the waterfall becoming more and more present, with us conjuring up images of it, as it can't yet be seen.
I love the thought of you caressing your own body, with your hands, imagining them to be mine, taking your hands along the paths, the trails, that you want my hands to follow, when you can just give yourself up to me, letting me take you, the way I want to take you, your words giving me that sanction, that desire, that need, and your eyes so eloquently affirming those words to me, when I can look into them, after you've felt my hands feed their hunger to feel your skin, with no place forbidden, with no place too intimate not to touch, with encouragement to delight in each place, each curve, each slope, touching and caressing places as much as I desire, with fingers gliding all over you, and then finally going inside of you, feeling you there so intimately in all those ways so unavailable to a man pleasuring himself, giving you those sensations that no man can feel, except vicariously, except as they echo and reverberate through my own skin from yours, except as your feeling enters my ears from your own voice, through your own words.
Yes, my dear, take me to the falls, and over them: Fuck me beautifully, ride me reverse cowgirl, give me the visuals I love, the verbals I love, as I wrap my hands in your hair, and pull, tugging you back, making you feel it, hard, harder, you fast in my grasp, I in yours, the words streaming out of you, punctuated by my thrusts, our poetry of fucking, ribald, illicit, unedited, no net of rhyme, no holding back, each thrust of mine pumping more hot, lusty words out of you, each plunge of yours priming me up.
Then into the deep we dive, gyrating into the erotic spiral, the two of us tightening up, a long breath of silence before the cry, then the letting loose: words gushing out of you, cum gushing out of me, pleasure gushing through you, through me, through us, wave upon wave, the swells hitting their crests then curling, leaving us balled up and beached, on the sand, under the sun, in a curl of kisses, pacific.
The Swell
(Very Free Verse)
When, from empty sheet,
the sheen of pacific,
there emerges a rounding of water,
our swell of anticipation,
my body recompasses
bends to the pull.
It knows the topography,
of our cresting and curl,
the spiral and whirl,
of sliding and plunge
the froth, the foam,
our bodies tossed,
my soul turned
I love redirecting myself,
on this Friday,
three days before our Monday
for our wave, our riding,
roiling up white screen,
playing hooky,
knowing surfs up,
filling these pages
with words for you.
Soon again,
on the sheets of our Motel 6 queen
there will emerge
pacific unserenity,
our swelling and cresting,
coiling up into such intensity.
I love witnessing
your desire and need,
and feeling my own,
the stripping down,
our kisses, the touches,
leading up to the moment
when whispers end,
the two of us,
eyes locked together,
mouthing the words,
your body softened,
ready to surrender,
you giving yourself to me,
in your need to be entered, filled,
taken, split open, sealed up,
my thick cock
again at home in your cunt,
my desire to make you feel
my passion, my strength
as a man in each thrust
so I can feel your joy,
your bliss, your power,
your beauty as a woman.
Dearest Larissa,
This afternoon when I write,
it feels different, and I love it.
You are almost within reach.
I like imagining your own body,
like mine, feeling more craving,
the hum no longer quiet and soft,
but more insistent, growing louder,
just like what happens when,
on a hike along a stream,
we first hear the sound of a waterfall,
and then the sound intensifies,
with the waterfall becoming
more and more present,
with us conjuring up images of it,
as it can't yet be seen.
Take me over the falls with you,
ride me reverse cowgirl,
fuck me beautifully,
give me the visual,
give me the verbal.
I'll wrap my hands in your hair
and pull and pull
hard, harder,
tugging you back
making you feel it
you fast in my grasp,
I in yours,
the words streaming out of you,
punctuated by my thrusts,
our poetry of fucking,
ribald, illicit, unedited,
no net of rhyme,
no holding back,
each thrust of mine
pumping more words out of you,
each plunge of yours priming me up.
Then into the deep we dive,
gyrating into the erotic spiral,
the two of us tightening up,
a long breath of silence before the cry,
then the letting loose:
words gushing out of you,
cum gushing out of me,
pleasure gushing through you,
through me, through us
wave upon wave,
the swells cresting,
leaving us
balled up
beached,
on the sand,
under the sun,
in a curl of kisses,
pacific.
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