Torn Shapes of Desire

by Mohanraj, Mary Anne

  Then the stranger slams into me, his cock in my cunt, his smooth chest crushing my breasts and I am crushed between them, and they are kissing me everywhere. The cocks slide in and out, slowly at first, alternating then synchronous and back again. And the stranger is gripping my head between his hands, his thumbs pressed firmly through the cloth against my shut eyes, and Joshua’’s leg wraps around us both as he thrusts harder and harder; as my moans get louder and louder and he is whispering words of love and the stranger is silent, his chest against my breasts, rubbing and rubbing. And the world once again begins to dissolve, to slow, to freeze with that particular peculiar stillness, as they slam my body between them, and the two cocks erupt, one after another and I cannot tell which is first and the stranger suddenly tears the blindfold from my eyes.

  And I come screaming into the light.

  Mango

  Manisha drips it down her pointed chin, careless

  As she laughs at my plight. Unable to pick up the phone with

  Nails and palms dripping with sweet juices. I let it

  Go — he will doubtless call again — let him wonder, and

  Oh! I would like to lick her clean.

  Summer

  Shade is the only goodness in the Chicago day as we lie entwined

  Under the blazing sun and lake wind as

  My lips tease with words and breath, promising

  Mystery you desire and I regret

  Even friendship and lust cannot cross this

  Ravine between us.

  Memory’s a Traitor

  Even the touch of your gentle hands cannot erase

  Rusty red nights slammed up against

  Old bedsprings noisy with use. Roommates

  Teased and complained and classes were forgotten

  In the heat of Indian summer.

  Christ. It’s sometimes hard to hate him.

  Morningsong

  When you sleep, the lines all smooth out of your face. Worry lines, age lines, even the laugh wrinkles at the corner of your eyes that I see all too rarely, disappear into pale softness. I was pressed against your back, asleep, my chest against your spine, my left arm flung over your waist. I wake hours before you would, if left to yourself.

  Oh, but I am too cruel to let you sleep. I slide my hand down until it curls around your penis, soft in the morning sunlight. I wait, breathing softly on your neck, too softly to wake you. Soon, warmth of my hand and gentle pressure combine to begin to make you hard; a slow, delightful stiffening.

  Gentle, so gentle this must be. I don’t want you to wake until I’m ready.

  Now comes the difficult part. I must climb over you without waking you, and find a comfortable place halfway down your body, somehow without falling off the bed. You have edged your way almost to falling off yourself, so this is difficult. I must nudge you over, so slowly, hoping you will not wake or roll over into an impossible position. I am lucky this time, and you make room for me, grumbling in your sleep.

  You are still hard. My right hand slips down to cup your balls, hanging cool and loose in the morning. My tongue darts out to taste you, salty–sweet, indescribably you. I would know the taste of you anywhere. You are somehow sweeter than any of my other lovers.

  I run my tongue up and down your hard length, flicking gently at the tip, caressingly lovingly at the base. My teeth close softly on your cock, and I wonder if you will wake. But no, you sleep on. Good. My mouth encircles your tip, squeezing gently, and traces of salt liquids linger on my tongue.

  I begin to slide up and down, so softly. My right hand slides into yours, above my head, over your heart. Your heartbeat is getting faster. As I lick and suck and nibble, I begin to wonder if it’s time to wake you. Now, as I rub my cheek against your cock? Now, as I run teeth along its length? Now, as I suck you so hard, go down so far, that I can feel you against my throat, and I am filled with you.

  And as you begin to clench muscles in your sleep and move against my face I decide it is time, and raise my head only long enough to say your name clearly. Then you are awake, and your eyes lock briefly, startled, on mine before I dive back on you, my mouth plunging over your hard heat, over and over until the shock of waking is past and you are building and building towards the finish.

  And there is no more need to be gentle, and suddenly you are slamming into me and cumming wildly, and I must swallow and swallow again until you are finished. You reach down then and draw me up towards you, pausing only to kiss me briefly and say my name before sliding down to do the same to me.

  We are so beautifully matched; body to body. And my heart is pounding as your mouth encircles my hard length, stroking fiercely from base to tip.

  Your mouth on my cock, my heart in your hands.

  Attraction

  The collar was hard to miss against her pale skin, sharp against the soft curve of Belinda’s throat. I imagined I could see the racing pulse under the studded black leather, unlikely as that was in dinner candlelight.

  I’d never seen her look so beautiful.

  It wasn’t a romantic place where the four of us had gathered — just a student hangout with good burgers and mediocre pizza. Mark and I had only dessert, the raspberry soda of the Himbeersaft spilling out onto my fingers as I resisted asking her to lick them clean. We’d ordered Thai earlier, before coming to meet Belinda and this new man, this stranger. Not a stranger to her, of course — not quite. They’d known each other for months over the net, and in some ways Geoffrey knew her better than I, who’d only known her well for a few months, or even Mark, who usually shared his bed with her. Though they’d never met in the flesh before that night, it was clear that Belinda’s heart was in her throat, and Geoff’s eyes were oddly knowing as he watched her.

  A master has to know his slave.

  He made me uneasy. Some feminist instinct prickled my skin when she waited for his nod, when she lowered her eyes in shame at some minor disobedience. There was a power in those dark eyes, those over–large hands. And though a part of me wanted to rescue Belinda, who clearly didn’t want rescuing, a part of me was perhaps... jealous?

  There are times when independence is not desirable.

  Mark’s arm was warm around me as we sat facing them in the wooden booth, dinner over, nobody quite ready to take those first steps out into the warm night. Belinda perhaps having second thoughts about the slave role she enacted with this man, myself wondering whether he’d think himself capable of mastering me, Mark perhaps wondering if he’d sleep alone that night. I don’t know what Geoff was thinking.

  Sometimes I wonder if he thought at all.

  As we left the restaurant to meet some friends, we slid from those pairings. Belinda’s breast soft against my face as I held her back, letting the men walk forward. “Are you all right? Do you know your safeword?”, questions serving to reassure a very real anxiety... and assuage an overwhelming curiosity. She laughed, those huge eyes smiling, and hugged me close. I wish I could remember what she said that made me kiss her then... not sure whether I wanted to let her go... not sure what he would do if I didn’t.

  The night was very dark, and his eyes disappeared into it.

  Later, I turned from laughing in a well–lit room with an old lover to see Belinda kneeling on the table, legs spread, arms locked behind her head, sweet breasts outthrust. My breath caught, and Geoff turned towards me. Smiling, he asked if I’d liked to kiss her. I answered that I didn’t need his permission... and slid across the polished wooden table to kiss her deeply, caressing a breast and feeling an inaudible moan in that pale, bound throat before releasing her. The crowded room seemed oddly still, and a mixture of desire and shame rose in me as I slid back into Mark’s ready arms. She still knelt there, softly smiling. That somehow made it almost all right. But even if she’d been crying, I don’t know if I would have stopped.

  There is something infinitely desirable in helplessness.

  And in power. He continued to tease me, perhaps unknowingly, though I doubt it. Geoff
seemed oddly aware of his surroundings. Maybe that’s a necessary quality in a good top. How can you surrender all thought, all judgment, if you aren’t sure that someone is making trustworthy decisions for you? Though he concentrated his attention on Belinda, the one he’d come to see, after all, he spared a little time to verbally spar with me. Through that evening, the bus ride home, the next hour or two as we headed slowly, inexorably to bed.

  Sometimes you don’t want to make choices.

  I don’t know whether it was fear or desire that kept me in Mark’s arms that night, as he surrendered his room to them, and we took an almost too–narrow couch. A moment when, lacking a condom, I mastered embarrassment and went to knock on their door. A pause, shadowed rustlings, then “Come in.” She was beautiful, bent naked on one knee before him, her silk hair falling down to shield a flushed face. He was fully dressed, a wide–stranded whip in his hand.

  He requested a kiss in payment for the condom.

  It was... more than nice. He pulled away before I did, and I wonder now what would have happened if I’d pushed him on it, running my hands across that well–muscled chest, pressing my hot body against his. Would he have taken me then and there? With her kneeling and watching us, and Mark waiting out in the other room? Or would he have laughed and pushed me away, sending me back to Mark like a small child reaching for something too dangerous?

  Uncertainty can be an aphrodisiac.

  I couldn’t let him make that choice, of course, and quickly slipped out the door and back down the darkened hallway. And Mark was waiting, sweet Mark, and the strength in his arms was appealing. We heard her moans and the slap of the whip down the length of the hall, despite closed doors. An effort of will not to run back... to rescue her? to join her?

  A muffled scream.

  And suddenly I couldn’t wait any longer, and we were tearing off clothes far more quickly than I had originally planned, sinking deep into each other and the heat of that first summer night as Belinda’s pleasure and pain echoed in the long rooms. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so hungry... and who can tell how much of it was Mark stretched out golden beneath me, and how much the crack of Geoffrey’s whip leaving long red stripes on Belinda’s pale skin...

  Attraction is composed of desire and danger.

  love once rising bright

  sleep soft, my heart

  once i might have laid gentle fingers on your thigh, slid

  up along the curve of hip while dropping light and

  lingering kisses along a sleeping spine. the heavy

  dark is warm, and often we have scorned sleep for

  endless touchings and midnight burnings — your body

  rising bright and shining between my thighs, two beings

  blending into one moaning beast. we forget for a

  lost moment all the reasons not to love; sweat once

  again proclaims that in this, at least, we triumph.

  do not fear, my sorrow. though i have no heart for these

  essential lies, i will not wake you with reproaches.

  sleep soft, and never know what sadness lies in this.

  Diana

  “These woods are lovely, dark and deep...” The line kept running through Michael’s head as he trudged further up into the Berkshires on that morning, late in September. He shook his head, partly to clear away the mosquitoes that had returned with this brief spate of warm weather, partly in frustration at only being able to remember one line of the poem. He had overdressed, a city boy out in what passed for the wilderness of New England. The sweat dripped down the crease in the center of his forehead to slip under the rim of his wire–frame glasses and collect in small pools on his nose.

  This second day of hiking was easier, somehow. Muscles which had been well–toned by college basketball two years ago, had finally started remembering how to move under pressure. Michael hadn’t added any flab to his thin frame since leaving college; hours and days spent hunched over a computer had, if anything, only emaciated his long body. A diet of coffee and donuts from the all–night Dunkin’ Donuts had kept him going through long nights of programming and debugging. But now — now he had escaped.

  Escaped from a city he was growing to hate; New Haven had been bad enough as a student, but it was unbearable outside the guarded precincts of Yale. Escaped from a live–in girlfriend who was becoming more shrewish by the day. Did he even love her anymore? She was still lovely, at least at night. Escaped from her four cats, two dogs, and multitude of small rats in gleaming cages. Michael had escaped for two all–too–brief days of Indian summer sunlight spotting its way through stained glass leaves against a wide and empty sky. And he was determined to make the most of it.

  “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood” ...was that even the same poem? Same poet? He couldn’t remember. And this wood wasn’t yellow. There were still a few green leaves hanging determinedly on the darkening branches, but the overwhelming color was a joyous shouting red across the line of hills. He paused for breath on the trail at a ‘lookout point’, marked by a small camera signpost. It was stunning, of course. The hill fell away beneath his feet to a deep valley, cleft by a river winding far below. Leaves across the horizon were a patchwork of sunset colors, blazing fiercely in the sunlight. Michael almost felt like breaking out into a Gloria in praise of a God he’d never believed in. He laughed softly to himself as he turned back to the trail.

  But there was singing. Somewhere not far ahead, just to the left of the trail, he could hear a woman’s voice, high and clear above the murmur of water leading down to the river below. Michael couldn’t quite make out the words, so far away, and he began to push his way through the underbrush towards that silver voice.

  Sharp thorns scored light tracks along his hands as he pushed them away from his face, and the light dimmed as he went deeper and deeper into the trees. Michael was surprised, and a little disturbed, to know that there was someone else here on this desolate mountain. While he’d known that there were other hikers about, he’d deliberately taken a disused trail, paint faded almost to nothing, to avoid other people. He’d seen nobody for almost two days, and had liked it that way. He’d almost started to miss his girlfriend again.

  The brush had been getting harder and harder to push through, but as he persevered he began to hear more voices. He still couldn’t make out their words, but low, throaty laughter danced across the still autumn air, pulling him forward through the thick growth. Suddenly, he broke through, almost falling flat onto his face as the trees gave way to a small clearing, a deep pool... and women.

  So many women, it seemed at first, a horde of slim legs, shining teeth, tangled hair and soft breasts. For they were naked, all of them, clothes no doubt discarded nearby for the call of that pool, bright with glittering sparkles, deep as dying. It was a glorious pool, and they matched it. Michael had pulled back instinctively, and he crouched now in the shadow of an old oak, watching avidly. His lips glistened as he licked them over and over. He began counting the women, finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the slide of water of smooth, dark skin. None of the seven women were pale; no, tanned golden by weeks of playing in summer sunlight. Their hair was uniformly blond except for one, and she, she was red. Red as the leaves across the hills, red as sunset.

  o0o

  That one was tall, perhaps even taller than Michael. She sat on a rock for a moment listening to the singer standing by the pool, then leaned over to break the song, still unintelligible to Michael, with a kiss deep and long as the pool itself. Then, laughing wildly, she dived down into the water. When she came up, it clung to her body, caressing the line of imperious neck to impossibly high breasts to slender waist and hips and muscled legs, finally dripping off red–painted toes.

  Michael didn’t know how long he watched before his legs began to cramp. He was sure these women wouldn’t appreciate his presence, and so, slowly, regretfully, began to ease his way back from the clearing, into the woods. And then she cal
led him, a low, accented voice sensuous as silk.

  “Come out.”

  Michael stumbled from his hiding place in the shadow of the ancient oak, falling to one knee, hands braced to catch himself. His face and groin were burning as he looked up, though burning for different reasons. She only laughed at him, a rumble of laughter like muted thunder as one of the blond women stepped forward and reached out a hand to help him up. The blond’s hand was steady and dry in his damp one, her nails long and sharp and red as blood. She led him over to where the redhead sat on the flat rock, damp with the water dripping down.

  She cocked her head, studying him carefully, from the thatch of windswept stringy hair, down the length of his sweat–stained clothing, pausing briefly at the all–too–evident bulge in his pants. She didn’t look particularly impressed.

  “You don’t look like a hunter.” she said. Michael shook his head, while trying to place her accent. It seemed familiar, somehow, like something he’d heard before, but he couldn’t name exactly where.

  “I’m just a hiker.” he explained, trying his best scapegrace smile, wondering if he’d wandered accidentally onto private property. The paint signs had gotten very faint towards the end of his trail. “I’m just here to admire the... beauty...” and his voice trailed off as his blush deepened. Michael tried desperately to keep his eyes on her face and off her naked body.

  Then she smiled at him, a smile so stunning he was dizzy with the force of it. Her teeth flashed like a model’s, bright and sharp in the sunlight. “We like admirers” she said, and with that beckoned to the six blond women, calling them over from their perches on rocks, their games in the water, their rolling in the drying autumn grass and fallen leaves. They came with fragments of red leaf caught in their tangled hair, with clear water drying