… the dark at the top of the stairs.

Somewhere inside my evolution karmically I seek retribution. Looking for love in physical beauty, desire is the drug of the bourgeoisie.

When asked a few nights ago, as we sat outside on a tepid winter’s evening, what my simplest pleasure in life was, I was immediately drawn to a weekend I had spent many years ago with the Squirrel at a log cabin in Sabie. Perhaps it was the second bottle of Bordeaux shared between us, or the almost-orgasmic succulence of the pheasant prepared just for this dinner but the synapses that had become clogged with cob-webs where fired up and all the sensations returned vividly.

And now I try to intellectualize like a glimmer of good in a bad man’s eyes. I am consumed by the flesh haunting me I know temptation taunts the empty.

Autumn, my favourite season holds such promise and sadness. Where everything takes on a new meaning from the over ripe fruit that sits on the kitchen counter sexually pungent and soft to the touch – to the oxtail simmering like lava in the heirloom soup pot waiting for a cabal of friends or family to devour it completely. The early morning smells challenge the consciousness to find somewhere – or someone to snuggle up against to keep warm as the dawn breaks the mantle of night.

So pour yourself over me. Until there’s nothing left to see, yeah yeah. Because I like the way you move in the dark. I like the tension, the tension and the spark.

It was here, where manipulation and adoration meet at dusk that I learnt that the simple pleasures that you’re unaware even exist, can be unmasked in the burning embers of a fire as darkness sets in all around you. How the finger tips can tease the skin with sensual delights but the hands that they belong to are hard to the touch as it squeezes the life from your beating heart. The fine line between pleasure and pain is only marked by the submission of your soul, as his sex dominates you and teases you and takes control of the senses.

The decadence of giving into desire creates such entropy within. Looking for love in spiritual faces blind to the art of fabrication. I’m like a baby sucking mama’s milk want to drink my fill and then some.

There I lay, my wrists gently bound with a corded knot of a curtain tie-back, my arms stretched over my head. The mind imagining the dying fire a few feet away, but with the slip of silk covering my eyes, the blindness of a memory deceives reality. Exposed in my nakedness, I savoured the touch of my skin against a faux-fur throw casually thrown on the floor. But there I lay, like a rag-doll forgotten by a petulant child, waiting for someone to come past.

Leave me alone I always thought I was better than this but temptation tempts the temptee. Pour yourself over me. Until there’s nothing left to see, yeah yeah.

Expectantly every sound heard feeds the sexual tension building inside. The crackling of the wood in the grate flares against the skin and you breathe deeply in. Unsure if the peaty smell rising up into your nostril is the damp outside, or the slickness of him nearby as he strokes a pulsating muscle that will fill you up tonight with a consuming passion but also someday with an equal emptiness. His body, hotter than the embers in the grate, stands over you. After what seems an eternity of waiting you give in and let him engulf you.

Oh, because I like the way you move in the dark. And I like the tension, the tension and the spark, oh. Because I like the way you move in the dark, oh.

Inch by inch, like a general taking ground in a battle, he annexes my body to his own pleasure. Intuitive experience is his map that guides him closer towards his final conquest. That secret pleasure in tasting the salty sweat as it dripped from his forehead onto my cheek like a seraph’s tear when the demon enters, that sharp, but exquisite pain at first transforms everything and binds me to his soul forever. With full carnal knowledge, I opened myself up willingly and let him cum within.

You know I like the tension, the tension and the spark, oh. This physicality. Shifting me chemically. Such power over me. It’s just desire. I know it’s treachery (shifting me chemically).

Cushioned by his muscled bicep, you head lays heavy in a cacophony of emotions, as your body is held against his in an iron-glad grip. Like time, his hardness has slipped away from your warm, moist cavity and you feel the oily slickness of his seed somewhere near the small of your back. Rhythmically his chest rises up and down as he moves away from your fantasies to dreams within his pawned soul. In moments such as this, with the darkness without you seldom see it within.

I know it’s just skin deep (such power over me). I know I should resist. I’m just too tired. Too tired. There’s just one thing missing. One thing missing here is: Love. But, oh I like the way you move in the dark.


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