Invitation, by Lee Jones (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
I crawl into your bed with only a candle’s flicker. I’ll be whoever you want me to be tonight. You want me to be your ex, some movie star, the pretty blonde you saw on the bus? Cover my face with a pillow; close your eyes and feel. I am only a body of ephemeral light, make me what you want, take my energy, and I’ll give you my light.
You need to forget, let the regret, and pain wash away as you take me from behind. I need it just as bad as you do. Lap at me, fuck me, do what you want to my body, all I need is to feel your hard cock inside of me, and your tongue slip up and down me, especially at my clit. Nibble at it, suck it hard, and make me scream out your name, slap my ass, fuck me, and then lick at me, alternating back and forth.
We are both in heat. You smell my need, lapping at my core, rimming me, and then fucking me so hard that I think I will split in two. But I like it. I need it. I want it even harder. You do not need to see my face—I’ll pull the sheet over my head as you grope at my body, feeling the curves, the hollow indentions. Pretend for awhile that you are loved, and that you love me, and pretend as you suckle on my breasts that you are no longer in love with your ex. Pretend that you don’t feel the emptiness that consumes you, makes you want to drink away those thoughts of anger and resentment for what you no longer have.
You let me touch you, suck at your sex, and you go deep inside of me, all for a night to forget what came before. I, too, am in love with another. I, too, have my own regrets. I seek to be loved, if only for a night, if only to feel the warmth of a body that is only a suggestion of something more. I do not want you to fall in love with me. It empowers me, to take from you, and then to leave, no questions asked, no expectations except a good fucking, and that is what you do so well. Your cock was made to fuck, and to fuck long and hard, and your firm, defined lips were made for kissing. You know how to please, you know how to take and receive so well. I move down your body, and take that hard, pulsating cock in my mouth, looking up at you, as you pull at my hair, moving my head to the rhythm you like. I suck, and then tease the head of your cock, nibble at it, and suck harder. I hear you whisper my name in the dark, and it makes me wet, as you finger me, rubbing at my clit with my own juices. I feel I am about to come as I suck harder at your cock, licking up and down the base, lapping at your balls.
I do wish you were a bit more enchanted with me. Regardless, I will kiss your lips, to feel your need, your lust. And you will whisper to me, if only for tonight, that I am beautiful. I know I am beautiful. I know I will take what I want, and will leave in the morning, hoping that my need has been sated, but knowing I will want more and that more you cannot give.
I come with a purpose. I come too, to forget the past and my tenuous future, and the path that I have chosen for myself, if it can be called a path, it may be more of a stumbling block that I fall over. Remember, I chose you, to sneak into your bed. You beckoned, I followed the flicker of your desire, and I lost myself for a time within your sheets.
“And the morning light came, and you saw my face…” I sing this out to you while you make me coffee.
You say nothing. I do not speak again. I dress under your now soiled bed sheets, our combined scent, musky, there lingers your aftershave and my perfume. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. Something hangs between us, unsayable thoughts, and yet, what is there to say? I look over to you, you’re stretched out on your couch. I must leave to go to work. I do not ask you what you will do with your day. I do not ask you why you appear to be angry about something. I leave you alone, walking to the kitchen, and rinsing out my coffee cup, setting it on the counter. I put my boots on in silence, taking sideway glances at you, waiting for something, knowing it will never be said. I know that no love passes between us, or maybe it is a fleeting, only-for-a-moment love that appears when two people come together for nothing more than a brief exchange to feel something again, to break away from the mundane, and let the physical part of love take over. And yet, there is a hint of remorse, like a bitter aftertaste from biting into a unripe apple too soon, not being patient enough to hold out until something more might manifest from our brief encounter.
I have no regret that I gave myself to you several times during the night, and then once in the morning, and I feel when you had to look me in the eyes in the morning light, you saw something that angered you, or thought something that wounded you. I was no longer an image or a fantasy in your head. I was real. I was me. You had to see me for me, the creases around my eyes, the gray in my hair, the roundness of my face. It didn’t matter that my body is firm and supple, and knows how to move with your rhythm.
I pinned your arms behind you, and while I felt you move inside of me, I stared at your tattoos, the ones under your arms, the one of pin-up girls. I reached to lick them, knowing I am not your pin-up girl. And I knew when you came inside of me, hard and fast, you did not want to see my face, because I was not the girl of your dreams, or the woman you really wanted in your bed. I closed my eyes tight, pretending too, pretending that I was not really there, only a ghost of something that you might want. You wanted her, the one that texted you in the middle of the night.
She texted, probably sometime during the night when you were fucking me from behind, slapping my ass, and pulling at my hair. Or maybe the text was sent when you tenderly awoke me with your kisses, and sweet caresses along my body, pulling me closer, and moving atop of me, putting all of our weight upon my body, suffocating me within your embrace.
Or maybe, the text was sent when you awoke in the middle of the night, grabbed for me, and took me hard, no kisses, no embrace, just your cock deep inside of me, and then afterwards, you collapsed upon my back, your cheek against my neck. I cuddled up to you with my arm around you, holding you, caressing you, and you said you liked how I touched you. You liked the feel of my hands on your body, and I nestled my cheek against the back of your neck, and that is how I fell asleep.
And now, as I pull on my boots and reach for my coat, you get up to give me a hug good-bye, holding me for a second, telling me to have a good day. I leave you with your thoughts of her, and why she will no longer come to your bed. I leave you with your regret and anger. I leave you with a piece of me – when you go to change your bed sheets, my scent will linger, and you will remember me, if only for a moment, knowing I can’t really be washed away. You will smell our coupling. You will then remember that I am more than a woman that sneaks into your bed late at night, to find a piece of herself, within the flicker of the candlelight.
Copyright September 12 2011
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.
I crawl into your bed with only a candle’s flicker. I’ll be whoever you want me to be tonight. You want me to be your ex, some movie star, the pretty blonde you saw on the bus? Cover my face with a pillow; close your eyes and feel. I am only a body of ephemeral light, make me what you want, take my energy, and I’ll give you my light. You need to forget, let the regret, and pain wash away as you take me from behind. I need it just as bad as you do. Lap at me, fuck me, do what you want to my body, all I need is to feel your hard cock inside of me, and your tongue slip up and down me, especially at my clit. Nibble at it, suck it hard, and make me scream out your name, slap my ass, fuck me, and then lick at me, alternating back and forth. We are both in heat. You smell my need, lapping at my core, rimming me, and then fucking me so hard that I think I will split in two. But I like it. I need it. I want it even harder. You do not need to see my face—I’ll pull the sheet over my head as you grope at my body, feeling the curves, the hollow indentions. Pretend for awhile that you are loved, and that you love me, and pretend as you suckle on my breasts that you are no longer in love with your ex. Pretend that you don’t feel the emptiness that consumes you, makes you want to drink away those thoughts of anger and resentment for what you no longer have. You let me touch you, suck at your sex, and you go deep inside of me, all for a night to forget what came before. I, too, am in love with another. I, too, have my own regrets. I seek to be loved, if only for a night, if only to feel the warmth of a body that is only a suggestion of something more. I do not want you to fall in love with me. It empowers me, to take from you, and then to leave, no questions asked, no expectations except a good fucking, and that is what you do so well. Your cock was made to fuck, and to fuck long and hard, and your firm, defined lips were made for kissing. You know how to please, you know how to take and receive so well. I move down your body, and take that hard, pulsating cock in my mouth, looking up at you, as you pull at my hair, moving my head to the rhythm you like. I suck, and then tease the head of your cock, nibble at it, and suck harder. I hear you whisper my name in the dark, and it makes me wet, as you finger me, rubbing at my clit with my own juices. I feel I am about to come as I suck harder at your cock, licking up and down the base, lapping at your balls. I do wish you were a bit more enchanted with me. Regardless, I will kiss your lips, to feel your need, your lust. And you will whisper to me, if only for tonight, that I am beautiful. I know I am beautiful. I know I will take what I want, and will leave in the morning, hoping that my need has been sated, but knowing I will want more and that more you cannot give. I come with a purpose. I come too, to forget the past and my tenuous future, and the path that I have chosen for myself, if it can be called a path, it may be more of a stumbling block that I fall over. Remember, I chose you, to sneak into your bed. You beckoned, I followed the flicker of your desire, and I lost myself for a time within your sheets. “And the morning light came, and you saw my face…” I sing this out to you while you make me coffee. You say nothing. I do not speak again. I dress under your now soiled bed sheets, our combined scent, musky, there lingers your aftershave and my perfume. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. Something hangs between us, unsayable thoughts, and yet, what is there to say? I look over to you, you’re stretched out on your couch. I must leave to go to work. I do not ask you what you will do with your day. I do not ask you why you appear to be angry about something. I leave you alone, walking to the kitchen, and rinsing out my coffee cup, setting it on the counter. I put my boots on in silence, taking sideway glances at you, waiting for something, knowing it will never be said. I know that no love passes between us, or maybe it is a fleeting, only-for-a-moment love that appears when two people come together for nothing more than a brief exchange to feel something again, to break away from the mundane, and let the physical part of love take over. And yet, there is a hint of remorse, like a bitter aftertaste from biting into a unripe apple too soon, not being patient enough to hold out until something more might manifest from our brief encounter. I have no regret that I gave myself to you several times during the night, and then once in the morning, and I feel when you had to look me in the eyes in the morning light, you saw something that angered you, or thought something that wounded you. I was no longer an image or a fantasy in your head. I was real. I was me. You had to see me for me, the creases around my eyes, the gray in my hair, the roundness of my face. It didn’t matter that my body is firm and supple, and knows how to move with your rhythm. I pinned your arms behind you, and while I felt you move inside of me, I stared at your tattoos, the ones under your arms, the one of pin-up girls. I reached to lick them, knowing I am not your pin-up girl. And I knew when you came inside of me, hard and fast, you did not want to see my face, because I was not the girl of your dreams, or the woman you really wanted in your bed. I closed my eyes tight, pretending too, pretending that I was not really there, only a ghost of something that you might want. You wanted her, the one that texted you in the middle of the night. She texted, probably sometime during the night when you were fucking me from behind, slapping my ass, and pulling at my hair. Or maybe the text was sent when you tenderly awoke me with your kisses, and sweet caresses along my body, pulling me closer, and moving atop of me, putting all of our weight upon my body, suffocating me within your embrace. Or maybe, the text was sent when you awoke in the middle of the night, grabbed for me, and took me hard, no kisses, no embrace, just your cock deep inside of me, and then afterwards, you collapsed upon my back, your cheek against my neck. I cuddled up to you with my arm around you, holding you, caressing you, and you said you liked how I touched you. You liked the feel of my hands on your body, and I nestled my cheek against the back of your neck, and that is how I fell asleep. And now, as I pull on my boots and reach for my coat, you get up to give me a hug good-bye, holding me for a second, telling me to have a good day. I leave you with your thoughts of her, and why she will no longer come to your bed. I leave you with your regret and anger. I leave you with a piece of me – when you go to change your bed sheets, my scent will linger, and you will remember me, if only for a moment, knowing I can’t really be washed away. You will smell our coupling. You will then remember that I am more than a woman that sneaks into your bed late at night, to find a piece of herself, within the flicker of the candlelight.