He lights her cigarette and spreads her legs as wide as they will go before unzipping her skin tight jeans and leaving her there, exposed, arms behind her back, in the straightback chair.
Her boots are rich tall buttery leather, heels like towering city buildings.
The upstairs attic room is rustic textured dark wood and low gray-gold lighting, as outside a large open widow, the autumn evening drapes its muted oranges and yellows, deep greens and chocolate browns, down along a mountain range swathed in thin white fog.
She watches him as he moves expertly about her, she is motionless, yielding, as he pulls roughly at the holes in the torn denim at her knees, ripping the soft fabric open further, revealing sudden peeks of taught porcelain skin.
Stealing her cigarette, he steps back to observe her, naked from the waist up, strawberry hair cascading down over her pale smooth breasts. He curls his lip into a sly smirk as he blows smoke in her direction, the taste of sin and spice, and her crystal blue eyes flash with the electricity of what it feels like to be observed, objectified, studied.
Under his gaze she comes alive, a graceful animal, heightened, within the wilderness of skin, bone, exposure, excited by the earthy scent of the coming darkness of night.
Made to sit still, obey, arouse, pose as instructed. For pleasure. She is a mysterious gift, a playful nymph, a work of exquisitely tousled art, fine sculpture, ribbed, malleable clay.
He knows it is the limitations he places around her like invisible restraints which will penetrate, cause her to overflow her wanton cups, mouth, lips, eyes, hips, sex.
She leans back to shake the blazing waves of her auburn hair, just to feel them whisper against her bare back. She needs to be touched. She needs to be pet. His pet. Feel his generous strokes of affection. Protection. Command. Encouragement.
Sensing her want as it crackles in the air between them, he stands behind her and gently places the cigarette back in her mouth. As it grazes her tongue she bites the tip of his finger – teeth digging hard into his delicious flesh – and he drags the force of his palms along her jaw before tugging her hair tight inside his fist.
She arches her long elegant neck and struggles against the hardness of the chair. The divine torture of the friction it creates causes her to moan aloud.
That’s a good girl. Let me hear you, baby.
His hands trace her collarbone, then move in unison over her breasts, caressing, kneading, pinching her nipples to stand fully erect, obscene, as the molten heat turns to liquid lava between her thighs.
Moving the sweet pressure of his touch down along her aching skin, stopping for just a breath at her navel, before skimming the thick fingers of his right hand over her throbbing, swollen slit.
As the evening sun slopes quietly behind the purple of darkening mountains in the distance, she is wide open for him.
Her ragged panting hot against the pulse of his neck.
A living, breathing, silent primal beg.
[A note to my new and long-time readers: I write so many different kinds of pieces on this blog. I love to write erotica, but I haven’t felt compelled to do so in a while, as my nerves have been so very frayed by the current societal scene in America. Just this morning, though, I came across a gorgeous image of a woman posing nude in front of a window which looked out at rolling mountains covered with multicolored autumn trees. And I was suddenly deeply moved to write this piece, to me it is a celebration of our inner and outer seasons, of our truly ecstatic nature as erotic human creatures, wanting for the pure trembling joy of expression, exploration, adoration, and the kind of intimacy which sparks the flickering fires of lust. There are many kinds of freedom. I want them all.]
Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy