THE BARGAIN

THE BARGAIN

The bells are ringing a sobering toll, 
a reminder of a bargain struck many years ago 
that is now quickly coming to collect on the deal…
A deal with the devil, with whom I sold my soul, 
and pledged my life, before I kissed the seal. 



The hour glass that turns o’er and o’er, 
giving me hour after hour until there are no more. 
Each grain of sand held the promise of time… 
time that was spent that he would never restore; 
Payment is due and is long past its prime. 



The watcher, tick-tocker, pace-maker, the keeper, 
rope-notcher, night-stalker, toll-taker, the reaper… 


I wanted, I needed, I bartered for them - and for me, 
confronted and pleaded, martyred for them – graciously.



Now the pendulum swings slower and I know they are grown, 
they’ve moved on, they have places to go, 
lives to live, blessings to give, and bargains to make… 
Remember this when the bells toll and he comes to collect my soul: 
The debt came due for the loving of you, a deal I would never forsake.

M TERESA CLAYTON

WHORE OF BABYLON

The room smelled of something wicked; something bled out and left to die.

She lay upon the bed like an open grave, awaiting their heavy corpses, 

that will  be alive enough to recognize their own descent into the abyss;

       that deep swollen hole...

                  that will swallow them whole.

                                                                 The screams are silenced in the darkness there.

Soon it will be my turn, 

               I can feel the life running out of me and onto the floor.

                      

      She has not summoned me to her yet, and I am growing weak with desire.

I hear my name and realize this is the way every man dies, a slow death composed of many little deaths until the heavy breathing, and  all the heaving,                                                        

 until his final breath...

And, another takes his place within, as she wipes the blood from her chin,              leaving the flesh to hang from the fangs of her Cheshire grin.

When she is full and sated with the souls of the innocent, that become the ghouls of the maleficent, and their poison fills her with such an illness that even she cannot contain their toxic remains,

      she will regurgitate their bones out, upon the floor;

            her work is finished here, and her services aren't needed anymore.

Just one more look as she turns toward the door.

The tomb of forbidden pleasures, she is...

           and everything a man does treasure, 

                                          is lost within Babylon's whore.

M Teresa Clayton

THE VIOLINS ARE PLAYING

The violins are playing, dear.

The music is saying it so clear.

But, you cannot understand it, I fear.

I simply hope that someday you can listen and hear.

The roses are blooming with fragrance, dear.

The aroma puts me into a gay trance-like sphere.

But you smell the rose and then the magic disappears.

I simply wish you chose to embrace the gift shared here.

The wind is blowing gently against my skin, dear.

The feeling I am part of what's always been, comes near.

I can hear their voices as they sing softly into my ear.

I simply want you listen closely, their songs are sincere.

I am touching you dear, and letting my fingers explore.

I desire your kisses filled with passion, nothing more.

Lips that touch, suckle, the taste of love is ours to savor.

Lips against the skin, gentle, across the jaw-line, I implore.

I can hear the music of my heart playing softly, my dear.

As your tongue traces love notes and goose-bumps appear.

You smell like a man should, musky... with a bit of austere.

I need for you to understand what your kisses should revere.

They show grace with the time you take to linger o'er me

They take all honor and love to their highest degree.

Nothing but your long passionate kisses will my heart free.

I am confident you will unlock the door, you alone possess the key.

Come now, listen to the music of our love make a beautiful sound.

Come and smell the delight of fragrant passion dancing all around.

Come dear, feel the breeze against your skin as we lie upon the ground.

Come here and let your touch explore, there is a treasure to be found.

I shall open the heavens so you can hear their symphony.

I shall call down the breezes to cool the fire between you and me.

I shall open the bloom gently, the delicate petals only your eyes can see.

I shall offer myself to you, dear, to give me your love so passionately.

 M TERESA CLAYTON

Rubied Embers

WHAT IS MYSTIC WRITING?

WHAT IS MYSTIC WRITING?

Among the most easily recognized mystic communications are riddles, parables, fables… it is woven in symbols, dreams, allegory, apocrypha, metaphor and psycho-speak.

Mystic writers often speak of being in a trance, dream-state, altered-consciousness, or channeling god or other entities from beyond.

Within the context of their writing they are communicating some-thing other than what is read at the surface… there is the literal meaning, cloaked in a veil of metaphors; often misunderstood or gone unnoticed.

The Bible is one of the greatest books of mystic writings ever written. It is filled with information that some take as absolutely literal and others struggle to understand over the ages but totally miss the intended meaning by over-thinking it and thus, misinterpreting the context completely.

Philosophers, in an attempt to make the deeper meaning more esoteric, use words to paint mental pictures to aid in communicating the basic underlying message which is often lost in its complexities.

Scientists use symbols and codifications thinking this will help the layman to understand science at a more basic level. However, one must first come to understand the symbols and codes in order to understand the message and then, one seems to cancel out the other.

So, why have these writers throughout history used such obscure methods to say something that should be easy to say?

For ages, people who spoke in opposition to the laws of man and of gods were persecuted.

To speak about the ethereal world or to acknowledge communication with entities outside of our world would usually lead to being labeled insane and at times, could actually get one 'institutionalized'.

To speak or write about anything not in the flow of mainstream thinking would discredit anything and every-thing else one might say or write.

Handing off enlightened knowledge to those who may misinterpret and/or misuse the information could lead to unfavorable consequences.

Mystic writing or speaking is meant for those who are able to understand – there are many fables told to children that still have to be retold or explained in order for them to understand the underlying message.

Jesus said to his apostles that he would reveal the meaning of his parables in private, for the common man was not able to comprehend the meaning.

Given that life is a journey of discoveries, if all lessons were given and understood at the onset of life, there would be no purpose to the living.

In the story, THE WIZARD OF OZ, Dorothy does not find out that she possesses the power, all along, to get herself home. She had lessons to learn first before she could fully understand the magic that lay within her.

So, why would anyone choose to write mystically? Or should it be asked: how does mysticism find its translator; its catalyst?

It is written that many prophets, seers, gifted ones… fight their destiny with illumination and the weight of delivering the light to others. However, the knowing cannot be unlearned or put aside as if it never was. Once the knowing is recognized the enlightened one has a responsibility to cast that light unto others, though there are no rules on how this is to be done!

Therein is your answer.

Epiphanies occur every day.

Revelations are presented to us all the time.

But, only those who are able to understand them as such will be held accountable with the passing on of the message.

Those who receive the messages from "out there" don't always know from whom they are receiving their messages… or that they are even receiving a message at all. It takes time and careful discernment to separate the seed from chaff.

Many writers throughout history have indeed found themselves helpless to the labels of insanity bestowed upon them by others and often come to believe it of themselves. Silencers. Those who hang signs around your neck claiming you unfit to speak.

I often wonder if the likes of Virginia Wolff, Edgar Allen Poe, or Emily Dickenson would be considered mentally incompetent by today's standards.

It would be so easy to leave you with a simple definition of mystic writing (Mystic Verse:

The knowledge it imparts is wrapped in verse that takes some consideration to understand. There is the verse - the rhyme - and beneath that is a rhythm - and beneath that – many detours to various meanings that one can apply to their own circumstances. From Esoteric.com).

The simple definitions offered creates a more obscure understanding of mystic writing and leaves many frustrated with the limitations of language. The best I can offer you is this: Language itself limits us from being able to fully express what we experience and what we intuit. We are forced by these limitations to use words creatively to give our reader insights that are otherwise lost in their common usage. 

Writers, in and of themselves, are painting pictures, providing backdrops of sound, taste, texture and feeling –the mystic writer is taking you behind the veil to a place where the senses have no power and hard reality does not exist.

And in addition, mystic writers are translating from a language unknown to man, a language spoken to them by entities that exist in another time and space that is not in sync with our mortal occupation in the here and now. Mystic writers themselves are as perplexed about their relationship with or connection to the ethereal and the surreal as you are.

M TERESA CLAYTON

GOODBYE IN SILHOUETTE

I heard the church bells tolling. It was as if they were calling me to come inside. I stood on the steps that led up to the ornate gothic doors listening to the organist playing some unrecognized hymn. I was being compelled, could not fight it, I opened the door and stood inside the Narthex in a state of apprehension, though I had no idea why. It almost felt like fear, but I had never been afraid to enter here before this day, this time, this eerie summoning echoing from behind the next set of doors. I slowly opened one of the massive doors, trying to be as quiet as possible. I looked down the center aisle and saw a casket turned so that it looked as if I had entered upon a wake instead of a Mass for the deceased. I could also see that the casket had not been draped in white yet, so perhaps I had arrived early. I dipped my finger into the waters inside the door and made the sign of the cross, head to heart and then across from left shoulder to right. I stood there in the back of the Nave trying to get a handle on what was going on, or not going on, here. I genuflected at the back pews. As I knelt I could hear the muffled sobs coming from the front of the church, audible sobs, though distant. But this was a rather large Cathedral and the aisle to the front was longer than most. I began walking down the aisle toward the sound. On my left was the Transept. There stood the massive organ with its pipes of many sizes filling the alcove that surrounded it. The bench was empty, but the music played on with that eerie sound resonating and echoing within the Nave. I stopped and watched as the keys were manipulated up and down and the pedals were moving as if someone were sitting there playing this massive instrument. I could still hear the sobbing and continued to walk nearer and nearer, toward the Chancel and the casket that stood there between the pews and the Chancel railing. Again, I looked toward the Pipe Organ and saw it playing itself. Or, did I notice the shadow of a man sitting there playing it? I wasn’t sure. The sobbing became louder here, closer to the casket. I could hear the mumbling of someone’s voice coming from the Lectern. I could barely make it out but was sure it was Psalms 23, a popular funeral reading. “… shepherd, I shall not… lie down… pastures… beside still waters…” There was a long pause and then “… shadow of death (the hairs on my arms stood on end, goose-flesh and a chill) … no evil… comfort me… cup overflows… word of the Lord.” I turned to enter a pew several rows away from the front. I looked around, trying to figure out what this was, this experience, this dream… I looked again to the organ and could make out the shadow a bit more from here, where I was sitting. But, it was just that – a shadow. Then I began to slowly move my eyes to the pews in front of me, to other side of the aisle, turned to look behind me, no-one was there. Not one person was sitting in the pews. The sobs continued as I listened to the distant sound of the Mass taking place as if it were directly in front of me but, again… wait! Shadows, more shadows as the Lecter left the Lectern and the shadow of a Priest, or what should be the Priest, took his spot at the Pulpit. I could hear the reading as if it were whispered too far for me to make out each word. Slowly, I noticed a woman in black lay her head in the arms of a man sitting next to her, sobbing clearly. One by one, each shadow person appeared until the pews in front of me, on both sides, were filled with these shadows. I wanted to stand up and run out of the Cathedral, but I could not command my feet to respond. “… he loved football and baseball, making it difficult for the family when the baseball season ran long and overlapped the beginning of the football season. Yes, he loved watching sports and when there were no sports to watch, he was notorious for taking the remote and running through the channels over, and over again, stopping occasionally to watch a few minutes of something before moving on and then starting over again, and again.” The description sounded far too familiar. Again, I tried to command my feet to move. “… he was a good provider for his family, a loving and active father, often taking his children on surprise day trips.” I stopped cold. Literally, I had gone cold. The description fit me to a tee. I wanted out of here. I was cold. I looked down at my hands and they were gray and looked unnatural folded in my lap. “… Carol, I remember your wedding in this very church 28 years ago. There were christenings, first communions, confirmations and a few funerals. We welcomed quite a few Andersons through the years and said goodbye to mothers and fathers. It is my prayer that Phillip is with them now as we say our goodbyes here today.” Carol? Carol and Phillip Anderson. That is my wife sobbing, is that me with her? The shadows were no clearer. Who is in the casket? Intercessions were read by some ghostly manifestation. The gifts were taken up to the Priest and small shadows assisted. I am seeing a Funeral Mass in some eerie silhouette. Then the Priest came to the railing and each row lined up for communion. Now was the only time I could make my way up to that casket. My feet moved and I was last in line. As I moved closer to the casket I felt the faint touch of hands as if they were trying to stop me. I just kept my focus on that casket and kept moving forward. As soon as it was my turn for communion, the Priest turned and walked back up to the altar where he proceeded to clear it before ending the Mass. It was now or never. As the funeral director and his assistants were unfolding the white draping to be placed over the casket, I went to the far end and pushed as hard as I could. Finally, it began to give a little and with the next push, I had it open. I screamed when I saw myself lying in full composure, hands folded and a gruesome look glued to my face. The eyes opened and I was looking at myself, looking back at me. Then the mouth moved. “Get in.” “No!” I choked out. “It’s time Phillip, get in.” “NO!” I screamed. No one heard it. I turned around and saw them all clear as day. No more shadow people. They were all sitting in their pews in full view, watching in horror as the top of the casket had opened by itself. They could not see me. They could not hear me. “I’m not ready, Carol.”  She stopped sobbing for a moment. Had she heard me? “Carol, please!” Carol stood up as the rest of the mourners and clergy watched in horror. She walked over to the open casket and I joined her there. Again, I was looking at the glued facial expression I had seen before. “Carol?” Calmly she whispered, “Phillip, you died three days ago. It was a fatal heart-attack and there was no time for goodbyes, so I’ll say it now. Please go in peace and know that we love you and will miss you so much… so very much.” She began to cry. She placed her hand on the casket lid, “Please go in peace. Please lie down and surrender. Don’t be afraid, your mom and dad are waiting for you. Now please do not make this more difficult for me and the kids. Get in.” I kissed her cheek and when I pulled away, she had her eyes closed and a smile on her face – she felt it. I steadied myself and with the ease of blowing feather from your hand, I entered the casket where my body lay. Slowly, she closed the lid and went back to take her place in the pew. As soon as she sat down, the Priest continued as if nothing strange had happened, as if he and the others had not just witnessed this happening, as if nothing was out of order. The drape was positioned on the casket and the Priest commended my soul to the Lord, Our God. At the grave site, I found myself standing in silhouette near an old oak that would be shading my grave soon. Final blessings were said and everyone took a flower and placed it upon my casket before walking away toward their cars. I watched it all, including Carol who asked for a moment alone. A friend of ours took the kids to the car. “Phillip, I know you can hear me.” I could not say yes or no. “I know how difficult this was for you. No one else will remember what happened there today, but I will remember. Thank you for listening to me and trusting me. You will now be at peace and I will visit you often, because I know that you are still here.” I still could not respond so, I ran over to her and kissed her cheek once more – again, she closed her eyes and smiled that beautiful smile of hers. Yes, she felt it or sensed it. The most important thing is that she will return and she knows I’m here. I don’t know for how long I’ll remain, but for now, I hope to remain for quite some time… I’m not finished saying goodbye.

 M TERESA CLAYTON

MY NAME IS METAPHOR

THE OLD MAN

A cool breeze has come a' blowin' from the north.

I don't think it's headin' down t'ward the south.

Seems to have found its way into my ears and

I feel a small shiverin' begin as it exits my mouth.

Gotta wonder where its goin' all dressed up,

Dancin' in circles, shakin' leaves to the ground.

Crawlin' cross the fields lookin' for sumpthin'

Yep, sumpthin' that will never be found.

The sound of them shutter's bangin', pitchin' a fit,

It's simply confusin' to the sane man's mind –

Considerin' the breeze doesn't seem to know

Where its headed or what its a hopin' ta find...

...A place to settle down and play with candy 

Wrappers, skimmin' 'cross the ocean wave,

Yep, upon the waves, carried out to sea

Where little breezes learn how to behave.

Sittin' on the front porch rockin' in my rocker,

I felt a wind come a stirrin' out yon, from the east.

Seems the winds came a blowin' without intent,

Took no notice of me a rockin', no notice in the least...

Unawares, slappin' shudders 'gainst the house,

'Twas too busy blowing through, headed out west.

These winds have no respect, leaving bones cold,

Puttin' this ol' man's constitution to the test.

There came a storm outa nowhere special,

Just seemed to show up unexpected, unforeseen.

I had to git my heavy jacket and put it on –

The sky looked a bit put off, feeling mean.

My teeth chatterin', body shakin' fer warmth.

Don't know why I didn't go in and light the stove,

Woulda made more sense than goin' back in

Searchin' for that old blanket ma's hands had wove.

The chill was near unbearable out here on the porch;

Snow began to fall like feathers from angel's wings.

I rocked a little faster tryin' to keep the blood a flowin',

Bracing this old body for whatever the evenin' brings.

Couldn't tell the snowflakes from the white of my beard,

Nor the ice formin' along the strands of thinnin' hair.

My fingers blue and numb, ears had lost their feelin',

Along with my nose and toes, in this frigid night air.

Ma came to take a look outside the door to check

On the conditions - another log in the stove b'fore bed.

Me? Well, I sit here on the porch arockin' in my chair

Keepin' company with the dyin' and the dead.

I wonder if she knows I sit a watchin' t' keep her safe.

I keep a look out for what dangers lurk at night, as she says

Prayers for all, includin' this here old man that I once was –

It warms me, heart and soul,... then she finally puts out the light.

This poem actually came from an old man who spoke to me several nights ago. This is his way of speaking and pretty much what he told me. If anyone recognizes him or this entire picture - please let me know. 

 M TERESA CLAYTON.

Dear John,

She might be leaving you today. If not, perhaps tomorrow or the next day after, but soon. How do I know this? Because you forgot who she was then, who she is now and who she is becoming. You have been absent for some time. Oh, I’m not saying you don’t occupy the same room together or the same bed. I’m not saying you haven’t had sex with her.

I listened to her yesterday. She didn’t know where to begin. I asked her to take a deep breath, I took her hand, I asked her to just pick a starting point and begin there. She talked and talked and talked and I heard every word, watched her as she became more and more animated as she spoke, I listened and I never felt the need to interrupt her. Did you know she was so creative - a genius? She has an incredible mind and an even more incredible talent for expressing thought. I was captivated. 

Truth is, I ‘ve been listening to her for a while and I have yet to find any reason to interrupt her madness, which I see as magical, mystical and magnificent. What could I possibly add? Soon, she will take a long relaxing breath in my arms and I can speak to her in words she may not recognize any longer - but she will remember if I say them to her enough. I will begin by telling her how remarkable she is, beyond the scope of most men’s ambition or expectation - I am not afraid. 

I will bring my face close to hers and whisper to her as I look her in the eyes - “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Inside you are compassionate, caring and creative - outside, I see the years as they have come and gone, each decade possessing a beauty that defies mere words and now, here, you are the embodiment of absolute radiance.” 

I understand she cannot be owned, cannot belong to anyone, cannot be caged, cannot be silenced, cannot be ignored! CANNOT BE IGNORED.

Isn’t this your greatest sin against this goddess of a woman? Why do you take such a woman for granted? Have you ever experienced anyone else like her? Do you believe you ever will again? 

As she sits in a room filled with stagnant air, her hair a mess, never bothering to get dressed, waiting for you to give her one glance. Did she catch you looking? Did you say anything to her? Or, did you keep your words in your throat keeping the frogs company?

I will touch her gently, beginning with her hair and cupping her face in my hands and praising the gods for this moment. I will bring my lips to the nape of her neck and kiss her gently, wait for that shiver and when it comes, I will know to continue around her neck and and back up to that beautiful mouth made of pink-ribbon lips, soft as cashmere, and slightly open anticipating the inevitable - my kiss. 

My kiss will begin with a brush against her lips and then I will take her lower lip into my mouth and nibble slightly. She will moan in pleasure and return that bite, a little harder, to remind me she must feel everything. I will kiss her deeply and for as long as she likes. I will be at her command - nothing is off limits with her. She will guide me to satisfy her every need and I will submit to her will until she is completed and then she will acquiesce to my needs.

Have you ever taken her slowly, paying attention to every sense as it is awakened? Have you ever taken your hands and pulled her closer, closer than any mortal can be with another? Have you ever breathed out your soul to her and watched as she breathed you in? What do you think happens when you take hours to adore this woman? Would you believe me if I told you that you would see heaven, feel gods touch, hear angels as they serenade you into your bliss?

There will come a moment when she will let me know and I will take her like a lion possessing his lioness. Rough enough that she gasps over and over again, hard enough that she must dig her nails into my back to hold on for the ride that will take her far beyond her wildest fantasy. At the moment of her final death she will be grasping the sheets and panting in pleasure and then, as I meet my own death, I will take both of her hands and raise them above her head where she lies, eyes wide open and watching as I lose myself completely inside of her. She, the vessel of my deepest desires has set me on fire once again, only to extinguish me with her adoring kisses. Yes, I did something right. 

She tried to tell you, John. She cried, she begged, she pleaded, she bled for you and your attention was always elsewhere. I have no idea how you, and others like you, can exist in the presence of such a jewel and not put everything second to acknowledging her magnificense. I may just be in love and therein lies the difference. You won’t know until she is gone and you can see her in your dreams in my protective arms, melting beneath my kisses and making love as if it defines her - never just sex.

Dear John, I’m so sorry you are losing her but I can’t thank you enough for allowing me the opportunity to do right by her. She deserves everything and I will give all I have to her. You see, John, I once loved a woman like her. These women are rare and to have another chance is a blessing I did not think would ever come for me. I did exactly what you are doing, I lost her piece by piece, peace by peace, until that final release, that painful goodbye that I could not stop... it was too late.

Yes, she might be leaving you today, tomorrow, next month, next year... and when she does, I will be there to heal her and there will never be another stagnant room that holds her back from being the sensual and sensitive woman she was always meant to be. A woman like this needs a man who can anticipate her needs, believe in her, raise her up so she can reach and touch the sky - someday, she will leave us both... on that day, she will learn to fly and then and only then, I will say my final goodbye.

You may have already lost her. If there is even a sliver of a chance to make amends, make them now - time is something you do not have much of and she is slipping away and will be a memory if you do more of nothing. Please take your time - I am waiting patiently to catch her when she falls.

Yours truly,

Her Knight. Her good night.

ENTANGLED MOMENTS OF LIFE AND DEATH

Gently stroke the back of your hand across my face and let it take all the cares of the world and simply erase them from existence. Cup my face in your time-worn hands and look deeply into these eyes. There you will find what your heart commands, ‘tis no surprise and I shall show you no resistance.

All I ask is, take your time and let me savor your touch as you savor the sight of this woman who is prepared to give herself, completely, to you. Yes, let me ask this much of you, ‘tis only right for a man to allow his woman to feel it all as she falls under your spell, before falling through...

My heart beat increases in preparation of that kiss that hovers near my lips but does not yet occur. What the hell are you waiting for? Do you not feel my anticipation for this? What must I do to feel that first soft brush of your mouth against mine? I close my eyes and pray this is real and I am swallowed in the hush within the room, the consent is not resigned.

Closer, you come. The smell of you, that musky maleness that excites me without even trying. I bury my face under yours and inhale something animal coming to the surface, your dark skin against my paleness contrasts perfectly, the husky moans blend into lusty sighings. Come closer, love, come into my skin. Let me feel you in every way - both without and within. 

Hush, you say, as you put your finger to my lips before placing it inside of my mouth as if searching for the words so you can pull them out and place them on the nightstand. I suck gently on one finger, then two - giving each syllable I dare not speak to you, just you. You remove your fingers and I lay my cheek within your hand. Within your hand, my love. Waiting for your command.

The silence lays bare your heartbeat. I can hear it combine and synchronize with my own; hypnotizing me, taking me out of body to atone and relinquish my power over to this experience. All inhibitions are extinguished more and more until I become deliriously wanton with insatiable desire. Come quench the fire, love. Come quench the heat of this desire.

One single sigh escapes me and your lips are quick to rescue the breath and return it to me, safely behind your rhythmic breathing that seems to quicken, then relax, and quicken again. Your breath is warm and moist against my skin as you slowly brush your lips across the nape of my neck and then return to the solitude beneath my earlobe and jawline. Your breath leaves a trail along the lines of my neck as you add enough suckling to mark the places in which you shall no doubt return, like buds on the vine. 

I can feel the blood pulled to the surface each time you stop to mark the places you do not want to forget. I assure you, I have memorized each of these points of interest and will direct you back safely to the places you seek. Just follow these delicate rosettes.

As if I were part of an anatomy class and you were studying the whole of a woman’s body, discovering how it works, how it responds to stimuli, how it is both strong in its capacity to accept this pleasured assault and weak from the desires for more - more intensity, more depth, more feeling, more desire, more life. More life, let me feel alive. Let your tongue slice through my skin like a hot knife to butter, let your mouth pull the very life force from my bone, through the skin and into you, let your breath burn me to the quick as it volleys both heat and cold, creating a shutter that shakes the whole of my body, now limp in your arms. Pull me to you. Show me all the places I’ve not been shown.

Slip your shirt off and allow me to see the sheen that glistens with a light covering of sweat. Allow me to lick your neck and follow the sinews from clavical to chest and linger there, tasting the slight saltiness and letting my tongue and hands measure the tautness of your physique. Oh no, my love, do not ask me to stop yet, I am not ready to put this moment to rest. The night is young and I am finding everything about you to be so amazingly unique.

Your nipples taut as well, standing upright waiting for my lips to caress them and nibble just enough to get their attention. But, I have other places to explore and my self-control held in suspension as my mind screams out for more.

You have anticipated this moment and knew I’d become lost adoring you with such abandon. You gently push me just far enough away that you can slip my blouse off without much awareness, releasing my bra with one swift twist, lying me down upon the bed for your exploring. I wondered if you could ever be careless and forget yourself as you bring my arms above my head and hold me fast by the wrists, totally absorbed in your pleasure yet there will be no ignoring each and every inch of my body. I keep asking myself, “Am I ready?”

Your hands release my wrists and stroke my arms, back and forth as you look me over again and again as if to memorize every cell of my being. Sitting weightless on top of my hips and continuing to stroke my arms, you bring your mouth to mine and the kiss is both shallow, with suckles here and nibbles there and then deep and deeper as I realize how freeing this feels. I am alive and dancing upon your lips, your tongue offered for the play. Feeding me your breath, your tongue, your lips and I am experiencing multiple deaths, it has begun. Oh, my god, it has begun.

My hips want to thrust against you but you will not allow it. My hands want to touch you in places not yet touched and you will not allow it. You move to undo my jeans and ease them off without any hesitation from me, I will not disavow it. And, I watch you in the shadows undo your own jeans and let them fall to the floor... what have the gods created? What is this that my eyes see? Gods endow, take me now. Oh, I don’t know what any of this means - take me now!

Shhh, you whisper into my ear and I wonder how you manage to keep yourself so disciplined in moments of pure lust. “Let me take over from here, my dear. I promise not to leave you wanting when I am finished here.” All I can do is obey him, whatever he wishes for he shall have, he possesses all my trust.

A small pool of perspiration has accumulated in the sinews of my abdomen and he laps it up as if it were succulent and sweet. I feel the quivering again. My breathing, somewhat erratic as he slows his pace to allow me to regain composure. Each time our lips meet, I become even more desperate for the decadent and the incomplete. Come now, please, am I not complete enough in this exposure?

His hands trace down toward my stomach but he directs me to keep my hands where they are above my head. I obey. He leans forward and begins to devour every inch of my torso as if he were a vampire lapping up essence oozing from every pore where I’ve bled for him. The more frenzied he becomes in his excitement the more I envy his ability to please me with his own brand of enlightenment. I want to push him away and feed upon him as he did me, I want to push him further down where his efforts will both toy with me and destroy me with pleasures I don’t think I will be able to endure and remain alive. But, I am alive, more alive than I’ve ever been before.

One hand slipped beneath my back, instantly I arch upward in response, knowing he has all the control now. He knows exactly what to do and how to do it... well. 

His other hand gently nudges against my thigh then he pushes it into place. For now, this is how I must remain, awaiting what I know will become the fairytale I will never tell.

His kisses completely cover me creating an overwhelming need. He removes the hand from my leg, leaving the hand beneath my back, and cups the chalice from which he will soon drink. The membrane swelling and rising up. This is how the nectar is to be released from the lotus flower that will feed. There will be no lack, no disguising the reactions that will unfold within the hour.

There now, he has found the purpose of his quest. The hand upon my back now joins with his other as he spreads my legs apart. I am so open and vulnerable to his control. His mouth is replaced by the strength of his tongue, moving slowly to its prize. And, I can hear my moans in the distance as if the sounds are separated from my body and hanging in the air, somewhere.

Surely I will be put to the test now that we have moved past the start and moved onward to the taunting that rips me to my soul. Reality as I once knew it has been replaced by another that should not come as a surprise. It was always there, the unspoken understanding that he would own me and I would never be able to prepare for this. I close my eyes and allow him to take what he needs, giving in return, an abundance of feeling that overtakes me in wave after wave. I do not want to be saved, no, do not save me, let me follow wherever he leads.

With surgical precision, his tongue vibrates against the hardened pearl that has arisen to greet the sensation with a passionate throbbing of its own. The moment is rising, getting closer to the pinnacle of endurance then, there it is... arching inside the pleasure, he immediately wraps his lips around it, maintaining the rhythmic vibration and begin to bite and then suck it into his mouth entirely. 

My body quakes as the moments unfurl and I have followed his direction into the unknown.  There is no lack of temperance, he understands the measure of my enjoyment, my response to this overwhelming sensation that I have given to him in its entirety.

My legs are spread even further so he can bury his face in the flow, ingesting what he can. Yes, it is completed and the remnants of his efforts are flowing freely as he summons it forth. His breath feels cool as if he is blowing gently to soothe the muscles as they begin to loosen from their contractions. A finger enters and curls upward, discovering the source of these testaments to the man who now holds my life in his hands. How am I to stop him now? I can’t even control these reactions. No stopping him now, I think I have chosen to allow it to continue. Who am I fooling? I am responding to his unspoken commands.

Two fingers moving against the spot that will surely surrender, giving up with a passion so strong that I, dare I say it, I will lose control. Did I ever have control? Harder and faster he strokes and just as I predicted, I have no control as my body empties and once again he meets the goal and buries his face in the softness there. He seems to lose himself in the flow as if addicted, afflicted, committed.

No words are exchanged, they are not needed. He rises up as if he would beat his chest, the conqueror. I see his erection clearly. This will surely be what completes me and destroys me. I rise up enough to taste him. My tongue feels for the tip as his member engorges, even more, making me want him with passion and trepidation. Passion wins and I lap at the length of his manhood, he unsheathed sword, taking it into my mouth and pulling him deep, sucking and bobbing and listening to him moan and growl like a dog about to mount his bitch.

My desire to feed on him, swallow him, complete him and then ask for more is merely a dream. He will not waste this moment by asking me to drink from him. I must abandon my expectations and heed his word, “Stop.”

I obey and he quickly turns me over. I wonder if I should remain silent or scream. He enters slowly, inching his way in so as not to rip me or cause me pain. As he works his way in deeper, it seems as if I felt something pop, yes - he has opened up the nether regions to their fullest to accept him as he begins to move in and out of me, teasing. I don’t know how much more I can take of this sensation, but I allow him to continue without hesitation. Faster, deeper, faster still, thrusting harder and then I hear him release the sound of something insane. Don’t stop pleasing yourself. Don’t stop pleasing me. Thrust if you must and let your passion drain out of you. Put your pleasured milk inside this vessel and we may recover and repeat it all again.

Slowly he pulls out of me and I feel the rush of fluids follow in what seems to be a flood of his release as it runs down my inner thighs. Yes, this is life’s blood, not red, but white without stain, holy excrementals for two lovers as each dies without the pain of death.

Again, he gently leads me to my back and lies atop me supporting the fullness of his weight with one arm. He takes his hand and as he looks lovingly into my eyes, searching for something that is no longer inside of me but resides in him, he brushes the hair away from my face and lowers himself down upon this body, still warm. To my surprise, he has found the petals from the rosebuds he created when we began and now follows them back. Taking his time to kiss each mark made and suck just a little more so they won’t fade. 

Each nipple awaits its turn with an odd yearning now that I am spent and every muscle in my body is limp from his loving, his lusting, his adoration and command of each and every cell of my being. He follows them like breadcrumbs to find his way back from... where? Lover, tell me you completely lost yourself there and now search for yourself inside of me. Pinning my arms once again, above my head, he kisses my neck, the nape, then back around to that supple area beneath my jawline. Taking his time before his mouth meets mine and the kiss is more than his mouth upon my lips. No, he is kissing me with a feeling that swells up inside of him and must be released safely to the woman who now holds his soul within her. I accept. We will let it be what it is meant to be or whatever you need for it to be.

Over and over, I relive the experience as if we were engaged and entangled in poses that serve to excite and reward each of us. His presence exposes his unnerving accord created by his gentle hand and my unwavering trust.

Sleep now, lover, sleep. Let us fall into the deep and perhaps our dreams will soon repeat. Till then, I am completed and you are depleted. So, sleep now and follow me into the deep.