Light / Dark

The room is dark. The room is light.

The room itself has light sources -- two lamps in fact -- but they are dark. Light shines from the next area. I turn it off, noticing a thin shaft from the upstairs bathroom -- out!

The room is light. The room is dark.

In the room, dark as I have made the house, there is light. The window -- that fickle sheet of glass, friend to none -- lets in light from the street, light from a car, light from buildings where they have not yet come to realize that civilization is being able to remove light. I close the curtains.

The room is dark. The room is light.

In absolute, sweet darkness, the best of glasses would let you see nothing -- the finest eyes would be useless. If your eyes can `adjust,' they are not adjusting to the darkness at all -- they are helpless slaves, widening to let in the light. I can see your form, luminous and yet seductive in its shading, its hollows and folds. Between your legs is a promise of shadow, cool as any stream at the stroking of midnight.

The room is light. The room is dark.

It is enough.

You reach toward me as I approach. I close my eyes, reaching for you without sight. My knee strikes the side of the bed as my fingers close on your hair. I sigh.

We collapse into an embrace like an accident, stiff thighs like twisted steel. I clutch at you as you open your legs wider, but there is no quick release for us there. We are far too strong to give in so quickly; our lungs still hold air. We have not reached desperation.

My cock strains like a leashed, whining dog, but as your hand reaches I move it away. There is much to come before it has a go.

We hold each other in the dark. I can see your eyes, the smudge of your lips. You turn your head and I see the first shaded step to take. Stretching my body along yours, I take your earlobe between my lips. I breathe in your hair.

Lips lead to teeth, surely as my fingers creep toward the universal destination of the breasts. While my fingers play your ribs in a run of chords, I contemplate the role of pain in pleasure. My teeth close on your ear -- at what point does the sharpness of my canines augment what I try to do for your body, and at what point does the pain turn white? I test the waters and you hiss . . .in pleasure.

The sheets are cool between my toes. The pressure of your hip increases the friction as my cock expands, pulling back on the skin as it slowly, rhythmically thrusts against your side. I flick a nipple lightly, my fingertips feigning disinterest as if simply testing for consistency. I change the tempo of the first movement; my lips travel step by step to yours.

The darkness has taken on many qualities in this time, may levels. I can detect color from place to place, as if the dark itself had separated into shades of ivory, coral, russet brown. The kiss has no touch of cruelty -- for pain here, in the fleshy lips or muscular, spiraling tongue, would bring no pleasure, only echoes of infernos. However, I take the aforementioned nipple firmly, committedly, between thumb and finger.

It is like a switch, freeing electricity to run through your body. You begin to move beneath me, and I feel your breath in my mouth. I tighten the grip a bit, and your limbs begin to loosen. Your heart beats like the blades of an electric fan.

I have time to feel my own reactions, now while my tongue moves down to the hollow of your fine throat and my hand cups your breast, fingers still squeezing. I realize that I am becoming very aroused. No climax is nearing, but I am sensually drunk. As I begin to kiss your chest, the scent of you beneath the perfume and shampoo lures me to the soft sweaty underside of your arm. The smooth flesh bends my eyelashes as I press my face to you; I open my eyes to the contact and see sparks.

The light is from inside, it does not scald the senses like a street light. Finally, I bring my lips to your breast and my wandering tongue to your nipples. I take first one, then the other into my mouth, suckling them, tasting them, pulling much of the breast into my mouth with suction. My hand slides up your thigh, barely touching -- the more severe my mouth, the gentler the touch toward your cunt. When I finally use my teeth, my fingertips barely graze the curled hairs.

You twist, and I fear that I have gone to far. I see marks around the crest of my achievement -- welts that may last for hours, days. Has my attempt to meet your expectations gone `round the bend? Yet now you offer your breast again, and I see that you have only shifted for your spine's comfort.

For quite some time we play this game now -- this dancing to the edge of danger, this joyous hurt. There are voices outside on the sidewalk. I use my left hand to caress heavily the breast I do not suckle and bite -- my right hand begins to sweep a little more boldly across your cunt. The hairs give way to folds of flesh. With only a little rubbing -- hardly the amount necessary to feel the grain in a board -- your wetness is revealed.

This lasts for some time. My fingers, getting bolder, unfold the petals of you and softly, moistly -- the soft moistness here contrasting again with the hard, fast wetness of my mouth on your nipple -- trace your clit. On each downward pass, I scoop your juices, carrying them up to soak this most sensitive part.

I am losing my abandon, losing track of where I am. My mouth leaves your nipples, my finger your cunt. You twist the sheets around your sides as I kiss down your stomach. As I reach the juncture of your legs and hips, you sigh and I play again. I lick down the crease. I suck the flesh into my mouth. I bite, gently but insistently. I continue.

You think you know where I am going. As the covers fall off the foot of the bed, my lips reach that darkness between your legs. I trace down each side with my tongue, the plait of bunched skin and curls . . .but I move on. I can feel your surprise.

There is more to this journey, more to your body. I move down your legs, and as I kiss the inside of your knees -- as tenderly and with as much force as I ever touched your lips -- my fingertips touch your feet. I know to go here. I know you, we have talked and touched enough in poorly-lit rooms to know this. My lips follow down.

I worship your feet. As my long bangs brush across your calves in showers of hair, my tongue and teeth, my lips encircling all, taste the flesh and bone of you. I kiss each toe -- between each. I close my mouth over them. I bite your ankle, feeling the pressure of bone near the surface. While kissing one foot, my hand kneads the other.

You react. I cannot help but overstimulate this area at times, and some of the touches are more ticklish than titillating. You roll onto your stomach in an attempt to escape, but I run my tongue along the soles. I kiss, gently and more gently, until you subside into pleasure again.

My knees are rough in the carpet as this occurs. My eyes have been shut for some time -- when I open them again, it is as if I had never seen your room, not that my sight can rest on anything but your luminous flesh. Suddenly, I hunger for it, and I trace a delectable trail up the backs of your legs. I nibble at your hamstrings, I savor the solidity of your thighs again. My feet have left the floor as my hands and lips simultaneously meet your ass.

Oh gods, it is sweet! The stars are obscured by thin clouds, the world is bathed in shadows as I trace the swelling curves of your ass. My tongue licks up and down the cleft for a moment; but in the interest of my sensitive nerve endings, I mostly run the course with my lips and fingers. I massage the muscles with my mouth. I squeeze, I stroke. My fingertips hold and pinch.

It is the pinch that does it. You moan lightly, and my thoughts go back to an exploration of the subtle pains that induce pleasure. I bite into the flesh low, near the thigh; I twist it slightly between my teeth. You writhe. I do it again.

Nothing has ever existed except us. All is void as I pull my mouth, my hands from you. I reposition myself -- you try to twist around, thinking I rush to the final target, and I stop you with a touch. All is blinding light around us, and I introduce the universal darkness as my hand opens and strikes your ass. Life begins.

Spank, spank, spank. After each sharp strike, my hand caresses the reddened flesh as if to tenderize, to sensitize. Your hips are thrust in the air now, reaching toward my hand. You speak the first word:

"More!"

Each clap of flesh against flesh reaches a new height. I follow the growl of your savage instructions; I would have stopped moments ago. You spur me on, controlling each moment as it explodes inside of you. I love your ass with flailings.

Then, only then, after you have established dominance, do you flip over onto your back. No time is lost now; as a bottle hits pavement outside, I crash like the surf into your cunt.

I am frantic, with no thoughts of breathing or of my own body -- I am a tongue at your clit and two hands reaching desperately for your nipples. You cover those hands with your own -- your control once again -- and force them to squeeze harder than I ever would have dared. Your hips move as you ride my tongue.

Time vanishes. I trace your name on your cunt, each cursive swirl around the clit. I slip, I slide. I skate across it in alphabetic curves. I wag my tongue like a dog. I lap at you like fresh water. I am drowning; your hairs are drenched.

Over and over I lick you. I spell out poetry on your cunt. I separate flavors, scents, feelings. I learn you as my lips close and my tongue moves. I swallow saliva mixed with you; I breathe air inundated with you. I ingest you at your command. All the while my disembodied fingers must be moving, but I am centered here.

Then . . .

Then, just as I am feeling that I have failed you and all is lost, you force my fingers even tighter and I can feel your hips tense up. We are both panting -- it is as if I were going to burst (and indeed, my stiff cock rubs against your leg faster; I hump you like a dog) in concert with you. I close my eyes tighter -- there is no need for sight here, other senses are in control. I thrust my tongue wholly into your cunt in between licks.

And you contract, your whole body leaps into motion; I hold on like a rodeo cowboy. You buck once, twice, again. You come in arcs of motion. I continue on as best I can -- you will tell me when your pleasure ends. Eventually, panting, you do. I kiss your cunt farewell; a slight, fading contraction.

That is what I will do for you in the dark room, the light room, the room of pleasure and pain.

I tremble, my muscles giving out, as I wonder what you will do to me.