tell the wolves I'm home
An artistic balance of swept over tides; where each rise was another promised crest, a brandished height, a welcome freefall. Explorations vast and once-conquered, restored and renewed, landscapes resolved into careful, sensuous vows, a bend in form and benediction. He could hear her plea, and any other time he might’ve laughed, teased, or taunted, but at these blinding, unwinding crossroads, there’d be no other concession but the simultaneous release – other binds, other convictions, already pressing away into their wake.
“All right,” he bent his face into her nape and conveyed, the rumble skimming over her skin, the insistent, incessant need clinging to every sense and semblance of his being. The thrusts drove faster, his fingers pulsed, quickened, and then contorted the lightest of air incantations – just enough to curve, coil, and curl minute vibrations against her – to drive her endlessly over, just as promised.
Then he too could unfurl and release with guttural groans and moans, mouth just below her ear, enough to echo, radiate, and reverberate the pleasure, the lack of restraint, the ravenous unwinding, back into her flesh and soul.
“All right,” he bent his face into her nape and conveyed, the rumble skimming over her skin, the insistent, incessant need clinging to every sense and semblance of his being. The thrusts drove faster, his fingers pulsed, quickened, and then contorted the lightest of air incantations – just enough to curve, coil, and curl minute vibrations against her – to drive her endlessly over, just as promised.
Then he too could unfurl and release with guttural groans and moans, mouth just below her ear, enough to echo, radiate, and reverberate the pleasure, the lack of restraint, the ravenous unwinding, back into her flesh and soul.
the ressurected sword
