"What was she thinking?" he wondered out loud, knowing that she didn't worry too much about ideas, but apparently knelt before him, little concepts piercing her brain. They would gradually dwindle into the miasma of her psyche as his wording ran back and forth along the aching, throbbing line of her temple and her tremulous flesh reacted to the rush of sparks, tingling along the spine of those syllables. Each sound seemed to pant a staccato beat to her receptiveness, as she waited, attentive, with the stealth of baited breath.
"Waiting your response is sometimes worse that holding out for your ideas," he teased, answering her unspoken doubts. "Your efforts at such minor enslavement of your Master are neither perfectly understandable nor perfectly acceptable.
"But I never said I was perfect," she giggled, a pet, his pet once more, shaking her head as the cool air of the room touched the damp skin of her exposed neck. The contrast in temperatures seemed to portend shivering in passive ecstasy as he pressed his lips against the sensitive flesh. She lifted her neck, providing more access, and reached to touch his shoulders lightly.
He watched her floating there in bliss, her limbs akimbo, as pouted lips twitch back smiles. Her eyes seemed to plead for a caress, from one hand, across a bare shoulder, a bare breast. He sat there, listening to her murmurings around his circle of pensive stones. He let his ears fill with the low moans from her throat as she searched his eyes for acceptance. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but dared not move.
And soon, like puzzled pieces falling one by one, their familiar faces formed close to one another. The voice she heard might soon compel reciprocated pensiveness and a search of forgotten places. She turned instinctively, repelling such depth of though for the present, her face glancing towards the floor, hoping to see into the future, but alas, she could not. He shuddered knowing how he would love to drink from just one cup that pours mindlessly as her body poured into his when they made love.The concept turned the water of their delight into the darkest and mellowest wine.
She could conjure a deep rich red reality from that wine, a reality that flowed through her every vein, pulsing with warmth, filling her breast, like the fresh air of a summer's day. He looked close to study her profile in depth, as one might study every brush stroke of a portrait or retrace every line in clay, claiming her sculpted as his own, his possesion.
She could barely hiding the adventures of your intimate schematics, that waited impatiently for his embrace. She wanted to pull orgasms from fantasies of their uneven rendezvous and to make his taste buds raw with the excitement of her flesh. she could make believe in an unreal world where lips hold both of them like delicate finger tips in light red gloves. He wanted to create a little wave within her, so that he could see the brilliant light of a land of make believe that exists under the covers of her soul.
"Sometimes our relationship seems like thoughts and positions," he mused, thinking that so many of these awere now rolled up in his mind that slide through his speculations like underwear rolling off her hips, her panties knotted like a crescent shaped french pastry - an irony that doesn't slip past him.
" The analogies you use fit both the situations and the relationship," she concurred.
"The most powerful weapon I can think of: the seeking out the harmony of your confidential danger zones with an elusive imagination," he smiled.
"Why would you need such a weapon with me?" she wondered, slightly confused, trying to piece together the mystery of a word puzzle that has fluctuating time and space in an endeavour to enjoy this singular moment like no other. She knew the answer lay in the fact that every moment that they spent together seemed to her like an eternity of smiles and sighes.
He pressed a finger to her lips for loose lips like new dance steps, float around the nuance of a kiss.
"Shall I be ever silent and sit on bended knee?"She pouted, awaiting the soft brush of his lips on hers. He seemed to enjoy idling with her on the doorstep of intrigue, finding within her a friend to blend from comfort into sensual delight.
"Stay silent while I lick your envelopes closed and apply a delicate stamp to your soft skin," he commanded, planning new excitements as he tickled her submissive fancy like a trickle of water splashing down the rocky curve of her spine. The sensation seemed to devour her whole and wetted every crease of her intimate folds. He was back to painting images with water colours on the canvas of her personal geography. He was waiting to create a devious giggle when he suggested what he would use for a brush.
The thought of that brush blought a roseate hue to her cheeks, yet she lay there still for a canvas of curve, hills, and valleys. He was tempted to steal the strands of half the scene, and with them he could compel her everlasting favour, a favour given with no reservations. Yet, neither love nor spells will sway him, nor her beauty, for he spurns her gifts - except one thing that he desires: those eyes of woman with which she beguiles him They conspire that he, her Master, might see through her vision a while.
She glances to pull all desires and hungers from her Master. Within those eyes all needs lie, a vivid extension of life granted not so much as a gift wished for, but as a supplement to sustain the feeling hoped for in a climax of the emotion sought out that he held dear and longed for. And withing that peak of emotion lay a welcomed embrace, caressing each line, shuddering within soul, heart and voice, crying out, waiting to be reborn under insistent prose. Her salty shyness and non existent reticence cracks allowing his waving fingers, to dig down deep, incubate her secrets in the dark, damp beach sand of her oft times sensuous, sometimes sentimental and always saturnine lack of inhibition.
Yes, he would take take her that evening, in the tall grass, under the rustling trees. There her creamy skin would be silk, satin smooth against his flesh. He would watch the waning moon, shining cool; over her limbs and know that her warm, damp lips, would be his alone. All evening, through to night, they would walk along the riverbank of their imagination, with honeyed gentle breezes, sweetening their kisses. All the rushes would bow to them and their love, one by one. He might pick and knot a chain of flowers, to adorn her graceful neck or make a grass bed for her in that magic twilight hour, as the shadows gathered slowly around their thoughts, their empathy, her submission and his Mastery.
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