You Can Tie Me Up

You can tie me up, if it will make you feel better, you offer, smiling sweetly. For a few moments I imagine you that way: muscular shoulders immobile, pale wrists bound to the faux-iron curlicues of my bedstead with sheer black thigh-high stockings (the ones I wore the night I played naughty schoolteacher to your ardent student), poet's hands with those tapered fingers that I love to have touch me—everywhere—dangling like a marionette's. Your long strong body stretched out for my delectation, your nipples exquisite mosquito bites itching for the relief of my tongue and teeth, and your lovely cock, truly the supple flower of your manhood, filling with blood from thick stem to tulip bud head, hard before you feel so much as my breath on it, before I hear you whisper, Make me come inside your mouth. But I don't want you that way tonight. No, that's OK, I say, stripping carelessly, as if I was alone, lying down on my side, closing my eyes. You turn to me, rubbing my face all over with the soft brown-blond fur of your beard, marking me like the wolf that is your spirit animal, the gesture drawing desire from me like static electricity. I open my eyes and kiss you—a light kiss, almost shy, uncertain. You kiss me as if you mean it, and you know I mean it too when I sink onto my back, pulling you on top of me. You keep on kissing me, my ears, my face, my mouth, each kiss more urgent than the last, and although you are bracing your forearms against the mattress so as not to crush me, I want you to crush me, to feel your cock—which is even harder than in our discarded fantasy—press into the pliant flesh of my belly as if it was inside me already. You feel like you're melting, you say, and I am melting, inside and out, as you kiss the flattened pools of my breasts, and then the crimson nipples that bob on the surface like buoys, licking them, biting them so that I'll melt faster, and moving your knee against my wet pussy like a swimmer who is testing the waters before diving in. Put your fingers inside me, I moan, and you lift one hand to comply, thrusting three fingers into my depths and rocking them back and forth, up and down, as you plead, Can you come for me, please come for me, come for me now, come for me now, and we are rowing in Eden, with the sound of the sea in my chest, its tang on my tongue, its surge in the wave that clenches my pussy around your fingers, drenching them, drenching me, as I do.

©2008 by Mariella Messenger

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Mariella Messenger is a poet and fiction writer. "You Can Tie Me Up" is her first published exotica.