malva’s graffitti

the faint echo of footsteps … and, i … drawn … by some invisible, magnetic force … found myself walking into the sound … unsure of why, or what or who … i could feel it … growing stronger as i drew nearer … intoxicating … intense … and, then …

the tangy, piquish aroma of Brut. he wore a fresh, crisp uniform, complete with 4-bar epaulets and silver wings… a pilot … a tall, brooding character with a luscious head of silver-splattered, dark curls and intensely glacial green eyes, he flashed me a mona lisa smile. i savoured it like velvety brandy. i stood facing him… motionless … holding my breath … and reached into the depths of his honey-flecked green irises with my own gaze…

so close … close enough to smell, touch … taste him. yet, so much of him remained hidden from my view, lurking amid the soft shadows of the curves in his face. his expression eluded me. a, vague, mysterious, yet strangely … intimately … familiar aura oozed from his pores … captivating … enchanting … i found myself breathless. my heart galloped … desire sat, like a stone, in my throat …

silence … soothing … unobtrusive … we, each unable, or unwilling, to utter a single sound. his touch, filled with warmth and gentle certitude, sent a shiver down my spine and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. our breathing … in unison now. i interlock the fingers of my cold, alabaster hand with his long, sinewy fingers. we walk through the nearest door …

utility closet: i, back against the cold steel door, swept into his torrential intensity … bound, by some hynotic, familiar force. he, gently gliding his fingertips along my bare arms, following each curve, each undulation … painting his touch onto my skin. he fingered the diamond on my wedding set, then bending slightly, kissed my hand. he closed his eyes as his lips brushed against the back of my hand and his warm, gentle breath soaked into my skin. a sigh – his – of tender longing, as i touch his cheek tentatively with my fingertips.

the hush of his breath through my hair sent tingles surging through my body as he scattered tiny kisses along my throat. silent … breathing in unison … spellbound … peeling away layers of clothing, revealing delicate, ripe flesh. pulsing … throbbing flesh. pressed against each other now – skin against skin. i could feel his heart beating, as if in search of mine.

skin against skin … surge … electrifying … i, a vessel, feel him inside me … throbbing, engorged … he fills my cavern with his sweet, milky essence. i, holding my breath, waiting to exhale … rapture … along with the slow, soft trickle of infinitesmal beadlets of sweat. panting … breathless … silent …

we carefully pieced ourselves back together, layer upon layer. silence remained. a thick, hot passion lingered, an after-effect of our brief, but intensely intimate fusion. we stood, studying each other, in suspended animation. i tried to memorize each line, each curve, each shadow of his face … to keep an etching of him in my soul. we parted with a kiss.

pangs of guilt soaked into me, like a slow, steady rain, as i sat in my plane seat, reading a piece in some daily british rag about John Major’s extramarital affair. the irony did not escape me. reality settled upon me like a thick, soupy fog. guilt … corroding my consciousness … guilt … i felt as though each beat of my heart told the tale … though my husband seemed blissfully ignorant … and … why shouldn’t he be, i told myself.

i sensed the rise of quiet contemplation and controlled anticipation in my husband as he fingered the outline of his Camel pack through his shirt pocket. i could see the wheels turning – he pondered seeing his brother for the first time in a decade. i could feel the anticipation bubbling … foaming … frothing … as the plane began its descent toward our quaint, mediterranean destination …

butterflies … panic … swept into a throng of human cargo, pressed into the aisle of the small plane and down its steep, narrow steps … nervous …pit of my stomach … wild anticipation … we make our way across the tarmac and into the tiny, two-storey terminal building. customs … luggage claim … frenzied excitement clings to me … stifling me … the guilt, it falls away …

in the moment i cast my gaze downward to flick my wild mane over my shoulder, i heard the rustle of an embrace as the two brothers pecked each other on the cheek. still looking at the speckled floor, i felt it again … intoxicating, intense … but … how …? nothing could prepare me for what i saw when i cast my eyes on my brother-in-law: the intense, glacial green eyes … and … that smile … elusive … vague … my mona lisa man …

to be continued …

Technorati Tags: passion, extramarital, lovers, pilot, mona-lisa-smile

sticky and wet. everything sticky and wet. a tickling sensation, as the liquid heat oozes sluggishly out of every pore. i lay still and silent, my senses perceiving hot and cold simultaneously. i feel hundreds of tiny beads of sweat trickle down the small of my back and along my scalp like the slow, soft caresses of infinite tiny finger tips.

soft caresses … my soft caresses. when i touch my pink fleshy lips, wep and slippery sap coats my fingertips. i long to lick these wet lips and taste their sweet syrup. my own, sweet syrup. i can hear my heart pounding, like a bodhran … feel the engorgement of blood in my groin. waiting to exhale … then … a sweet sigh, followed by an quiet, orgasmic squeal. shit. that feeling. throbbing. behind my pubic bone. hmmph …

… prying my hot, we and sticky legs apart, i thrust them into the air, making a ballistic missle of my soggy bed linen. a moist, sharp thud punctuates the screaming silence at it hits the peanut butter colopured wood floor. i peel my soggy sleeveless undershirt away from my sternum, making a rustling sound as my mane passes thru it. and then … the sharp flicking sound of air displacement as i fling the soggy cotton mass across toward the soggy bed linen pile.

the sweetly sour odour of perspiration envelopes me. i reach thru the jungle of curly bamboo on the bedroom windowsill and throw open the window. i close my eyes and rush to the arms of the gentle salty morning breeze. from the towering treetops, a winged chorus chirps, warbles, chatters, clicks and tweets – it sounds like the tropical garden and birdhouse i used to visit at the zoo as a kid. i love to bathe in the golden ribbons of hazy sunshine that spills thru my windows in the morning.

i feel it. i try to deny it. alienate it. but … i feel it. that insatiable, wild, yearning grows within. it bubbles and churns at my core, corrosive, caustic. as it eats away i struggle in vain to plug the gaping hole it creates, but i cannot find the filler capable of filling the void. blood orange. for breakfast, i mean. appropriate, considering ‘the menses flowing out of me: heavy, thick, red …

crimson-coloured sections of citrus fruit enclosed in a firm, puckered and mottled rind. full bodied. crimson-tasting. carefully, i remove white, stringy coating from each section. i draw a section across my lips and then my mouth slowly draws it inside. the skin of the orange-meat feels taut and full, like a wrinkled water baloon. i nudge it gently, rolling the crescent-shaped section with my tongue. when i sink into the plump, ripe fruit, tinky jets of juice spray inside my mouth, the sound reminds me of the crunching sound of walking on snow. i grind the ripe, juicey meant to a fine pulp and it slides effortlessly down my throat.

the throbbing intensifies. sharp. pressure. cramping. squeezing my viscera into itself. i need a hot frying pan (hey, don’t knock it … it works better than midol and a hot water bottle …) and some serious drugs to remove that pounding sensation from my head. wild hunger fills me.

Technorati Tags: stories, menses, erotica, hunger

she wanted to hurt him. to cut him and watch him bleed. to strike him and leave a mark on his soft, white skin. seething and boiling, she silently savoured her prey. she wanted to hurt him. she flew down the stairs, possessed by a faceless rage. his body hit the floor with a sharp thud … like a felled tree.

“oh please,” he moaned desperately.

terror lit his eyes … pleading … begging. it all made her hungry for the kill. she bathed in his terror … his flesh had a salty rich flavour. his gutteral cries electrified her. he croaked weakly as she inflicted pain … then pleasure … that quickly grew into agony … with the deft movement of her hands, teeth and tongue. his body convulsed in pleasure then writhed in pain. moaning. pleading. begging. groaning. croaking. gutteral cries. a tempest of rage engulfed her … orgasmic in intensity.

she drew the blade into the soft, loose flesh of his neck. it felt like cutting into a boiled perogy. death lingered. she watched his sticky, crimson blood ooze lazily from his flesh. painful anticipation descended … like waiting for the ketchup to hit the food.

she sliced the carotid artery. it felt like slicing licorice. she grew deaf to all ambient noises, mesmerized by the thick, warm, red geyser spurting from his neck. the pulsing spray reminded her of rain. the sound of rain. she bathed in this gentle, diffuse sound … then … gurgling, the gentle babbling of a brook … and … a gutteral moan emanated from the body as its spirit departed. her rage – melted to nothing.

kill,rage,orgasm,stories

i … succubus … have arrived in the 21st century urban jungle. i have slept so soundly these past few hundred years, deep in the earth’s molten essence. Awakened by the haunting chant of my stirring appetite. i felt listless yet unable to sleep. unmotivated and out of focus. i lingered here, under the forest carpet of stanley park. i bathe in the bubbling, moleten hearth beneath the forest. i hang high above the forest floor tickling the moist, green-scented air. i hunt. i play the phantom trickster, tease, erotic seductress as i frolick about the forest in my own sweet, hazy mist.

i manage to snack along the way, having, fortunately, encountered many succulent males to nourish me. their taste reminds me of eating sweet, ripened plump pears. think of it. a tough but leathery skin encapsulating swwet, ivory coloured pulp. a fine, grainy pulp. glistening with clear juice. subtle. tangy. and a lick of the lips as the taste buds yearn for another taste.

well … the mortal world has metamorphosed into quite an interesting mosaic of large sprawling urban desert and imploding lush green jungle, since my last fling here, a few hundred years ago. those smelly, irritating metal rodents … what do you call them … cars? those intrusively garish steel necks that litter a lovely skyline … cranes? those token geese hissing and spitting as they guard their tiny patch of downtown grass from passersby. the scalped slopes of once-forested mountains.

mortals have certainly grown. taller. heavier. more complacent. lazy. sad. they have become so vulnerable. so far removed from the core of their existence. like baby birds, floundering for the next taste. existing for consumption. rather that consuming for existence. this intrigues me, excites me. lustful hunger … i feed and grow stronger suckling the teet of desperate, lustful hunger. it hangs thickly in the air here … and fear … rapacious entities like yours truly, we smell fear you know. fear … my sweet opium … hunger and fear, these transform me into a restless, sexual vulture. an immortal sexual vulture in a corporeal body.

stories, succubus, demoness, forest, immortal

in the deep green canopy of stanley park, south of lover’s walk, he sits on a moss-covered log, in front of the tattered green tent that forms his makeshift campsite. the golden moon sags from the blue velvet sky and a screaming stillness descends on this warm march nite. he licks the filter-end of his home-made heroine cigarette as he watches the orange sheaths of fire in momentary suspended animation. he belches, retasting a small mouthfull of partially digested roast mallard, and twirls the end of the cigarette over the flame tip. the wood spits and crackes and the flames dance and flicker wildly as he inhales from the cigarette in short, sharp bursts, then holds the smoke in his lungs. he counts silently to 15 then exhales, and gazes at the clear sheets of heat shimmeying from the flames, cloaked in thin ribbons of white smoke.

he feels a sudden chill as his small campfire intensifies into a ten-foot high flame. he sits like a stone as the chanting flames embrace him with an icey grip. long, smokey tendrils swirl around him, leaching through his pores like a vapour. a strangely arousing, warm sensation surges through his body … electrifying … he hungers for more. he gasps and heaves to catch his breath. his heart races like a high speed train. a hot, steamy lust brews within his groin … throbbing … a slimy, salty film of sweat coats his ruddy face now … cuming … he cries out breathlessly to the cavernous forest … but … instead of orgasmic relief, his groin throbs violently … intense … a crushing ache … like … a migraine in his groin. unrelenting pleasure becomes unrelenting pain. then … nothing … a dark, sleepy void. trapped … no escape … in a twilight. you know, the kind of twilight that renders you powerless to operate your own body?
heroin, story, firedemon, forest