Mnogo mi se sviđalo ono sto si napisala. I want someone to want me to fuck them like that.
Ovo je nesto sto sam napisala u 2004. zelela bih da mogu da pisem tako na srpskom ali jos ne mogu. fali mi reci, i moj recnik ima samo pristojne reci. I zvucilo bi potpuno smesno na srpskom zbog cega sto jos ne mogu da pisem bez greske.
Push Pull
I.
I want to fuck you twice. I want to clutch you to me and ride you until it hurts, your hands shaking as they touch me as though I'm your long awaited nicotine fix. I want to push you, pull you, bite you, be bitten. Don't stop until I'm bruised and sore and breathless. I want to feel you. So often I try to have sex without feeling anything. Sometimes it works. This time, I want you to make me feel. Breathe life into me, show me what is here and now and good. Let the world dissolve into you and make me forget there was ever anything but this moment. Trigger me. Take me back, take me forward, pull me under your raging tides. Make it fast and angry and desperate. Make my vulva quiver in its own private storm until it explodes onto your thighs. Let me feel your nails in my back, flesh tones melting, intertwining, furious brush strokes on unprepared canvas.
And when I wake up nestled in your arms, a purple bruise forming on my clitoris I want to make love to you, long and painfully slow and drink of your sweetness. Take me in your circle and hold me close and make every breath a prayer. Kiss me slowly, sweetly. Make me ache with longing. Let me gaze at your features and write the data of your face to my memory. Make me beg. Make me ache for you to touch me. Tease me with your fingertips. Let me hold you to me and run my fingers through your hair and kiss your eyelids like I was your lover instead of just a random friend.
Make me shiver, make me cry. Let your tears mingle with mine. Push your fingers inside me, make my vulva scream. Let me lick you clean and come back for seconds. Make time stop, drop away, let the end come before the beginning. Let me lie nestled in your arms and finish me off with eye candy and fantasies, the way it began.
II.
We have the house to ourselves. Everyone's away. Everything's quiet and still. Except for the clock, and the buzz of the radio in the other room and when I think hard enough I can hear the washing machine humming. It's dusk and the light is fading fast as we eat dinner. I peel the crust off my bread and eat it first, watching you eat. You pull your spaghetti into your mouth and I gaze, wishing suddenly that I were a mess of tangled pasta on your fork about to enter your lips. I push the soft white part of the bread into my mouth, suddenly aware of the yeast smell.
I am aware that you are also watching me, your eyes tracing my features when I look down to cut another bite of spaghetti. My hands feel your gaze. I continue eating. I am aware of your curves. Your body tells me it knows I'm watching, that it's zen about my observation. It says, "I don't have to be on top of everything around you. You think I'm gorgeous just like this, don't you?" I nod imperceptibly.
I take our plates to the sink. My hips feel your eyes. My fingers scrub the plates. I hate using sponges. I need to feel with my fingertips that things are clean. I put them in the dishwasher when I'm done. I look up. You are standing, silhouetted by the hallway light, your eyes pierce me. I follow you lightly.
In your bedroom, you move to take off your shirt and I stop you. "I need to know that if I need things to stop, that you won't be wondering if there's something you did wrong. I need to know that if I say it's not you, it's me, you'll believe me."
Your eyes soften. They tell me "yeah, me too."
You shrug. "Relax, babe. If stuff happens, stuff happens. This is just for fun." I nod, smile to take away the pressure. You've passed the test. You passed it with your eyes. I won't say "no" if I don't think you can handle it. I'll go away and you won't notice, I'll cry in the shower later, if I have to. But I won't stop things if I think you'll be insecure about it. I stop thinking about this and pull off your shirt.
You are wearing one of those bras which comes open in the front. Taking it off is like opening the pearly gates. I watch with the eyes of a fifteen year old boy.
Suddenly, I'm standing in the doorway watching us: the taller girl and the shorter girl, undressing each other slowly in the dimly lit room, playing with each other's breasts and clothes, savouring each moment. Yogis spend years learning to leave their bodies. I mastered it at the age of two. I rise, floating above you, over your shoulders looking down on us. Come up here. Come fuck me on your ceiling. You stroke my upper arms with your fingernails and I return to my body, to softness beneath my fingers, your slightly mussed hair which has fallen in your face, the big brown eyes which are taking in my breasts.
Clothes fall away. Time falls away. I'm still gazing at your softness when you push me onto the bed. I let myself fall, lie on my back, look up at you. You kiss me, hard. I close my eyes.
There is urgency on your tongue as it pushes itself into my mouth and I wonder if I've brushed my teeth. I put my arms around you, kiss you back. I've just eaten dinner but I'm still hungry. You attack my tongue, caressing it, sucking on it, pushing it out of your way as you invade my mouth. I run my fingers up your back without thinking. Don't make me think.
You aren't wasting any time, taking your hands and exploring my chest with your fingers. I've forgotten how much I can enjoy having a soft weight on top of me. That pressure I used to seek by crawling under mattresses when I was younger (who am I kidding, I did it this summer). The steady pressure, the weight, I look up at you. You are soft, slightly sweaty. The fan's in the corner. You don't have air conditioning. Neither do I, now that I think about it. It's been a long time since I've been home. It's hot. You are exploring my chest with both hands the way an infant explores the floor during tummy time and I stretch my head to kiss you.
I watch you change from infant to woman as you squeeze my nipples between your fingers, stretching them, pulling them until they're hard and big. You push my nipples into your mouth, pull them with your tongue, bite. Your hands run all over me, lightly, harder,
harder. God, I never knew you had so many hands.
The urgency has moved from your tongue to your fingertips and you can't get enough of me. You arch your back, creating distance between us like an opened clothes pin and I reach up, cupping your breasts in my palms, pulling them like picking oranges from a tree. Your breasts are ripe.
Your hands are moving lower in wide sweeps: my breasts, my stomach, my legs. I think you skipped something. You're moving up my inner thighs with fingers trembling with desire. I never realised how incredibly good it feels to be desired, after all those years of trying not to be noticed, trying not to be touched. Touch me. I'm bathing in your skin, gazing at you, still massaging you with my fingers and you shiver as they find your neck.
Touch me. You rake your nails up my inner thighs and I'm aching for you. "Don't stop," I whisper. You slide down carefully, watching your hands move. They work their way up my thighs and you are touching me without warning, hard and fast and I'm quivering. I'm floating above you. You are leaning over me, most of your weight on one arm, your head bent low, strands of your hair resting neatly on my thigh like a veil. The light of the moon filters through the veil and casts my vulva in a dim, pale light. It's been a week since I've shaved and the hairs are growing back in. Your fingers are playing with my clitoris. I don't have much of a clitoral hood. I suddenly want very much to be in my body, and I am.
Clitoral play rarely does much for me. Oh sure there are those moments like now when -- ooooh -- when it makes me squirm and -- mmm -- makes me want it to never stop, but mostly there's just this odd "I know I'm supposed be feeling something" feeling and I never know if it's -- ooooh -- on my end or on my partner's. I'm never sure what I'm supposed to feel. Maybe I worry too much about "supposed to."
I lie back, look up at the ceiling, stay here, stay now. Your hand is slightly sweaty as it moves up my vulva, my clitoris slipping between your fingers and I'm thinking too hard about how it feels. You pinch, pull at my labia, press your thumb up against my clitoris and push it hard against my pubic bone and my hips move against you. We dance.
My vulva is aching. I've been wet for a while. Just
looking at you makes me wet. I look down, but don't see much: the mound of my breasts, the top of your head, your soft, soft hair. Oh God, you're blowing on it. You kiss it lightly, pull it into your mouth, push your tongue over it. You are warm; you're breathing hard. You push your tongue inside me and I try to take it all in.
You are washing me with your tongue, bathing me. Your fingers, thick like vegetables slip inside coaxingly begging for nectar to drink. I oblige you. More agile than my cucumbers, they are pulsing, exploring, probing inside me. What are you looking for with such urgency?
There's a ring of pressure points, like little landmines, just inside my vagina that are sometimes (lately) sore to the touch in the way that the muscles in my shoulders always are. You are feeling them, skating around them, massaging them hard and fast and the pain radiates inward and I don't know if I'm supposed to cry or come. My muscles clench; I breathe. Your tongue is lapping at me soothingly, hungrily. Your fingers are scraping at the gate and I'm just praying that the gatekeeper, that three year old child, will let you in.
You push your fingers in deeper, clutching me, stroking me, past no man's land and into the heart of my vagina. I breathe hard. You stroke the back of my paraurethral glands fast and furious and I shake and breathe until I squirt in your mouth again and again. You reward me with more touching, pressing me, pushing me, stretching me, pulling my clitoris between your teeth. It hurts. It hurts good.
I am lying on my back with this hot girl fucking me. So many times when I was lying like this something was being stolen, and now I'm giving it freely. I'm not sure if my body knows the difference, but I never want you to stop.
I've made your fingers slippery and they are slipping, grasping, reaching inside for me as though I were curled up deep in my cervix and you were on a pilgrimage to touch me, as though I were a small child trapped on a cliff and you were climbing up its wall to reach me, touching me the way I used to touch the soft sand filtering through my toy sieve at the sandbox all those years ago.
I cry out, reach my hands down to touch you, feel you there beneath my fingers. It makes me antsy not to have anything there to touch. I find you there. Your soft, soft hair. You pull me into another orgasm which leaves tears running down the sides of my face towards my ears. You come up for air, your right hand still holding my vulva, hard so I know it's you. You position yourself on top of me and I taste myself on you when I pull your tongue into my mouth.
"Are you okay?" You ask, retrieving your tongue.
"Don't stop."
You hold my vulva, your hand pressed hard against the bone and you kiss me, hungrily. I want to repay you. Don't I have to pay you back after lying here in bliss for all this time? I press you to me, feeling your weight, the sweaty skin on your back beneath my fingers. You breathe.
We don't move for quite some time, as we catch our breath and kiss gently. Your hand is still pressing between my legs, holding me the way a five year old holds herself when she's trying not to pee.
I run my fingers down your sides teasingly and you push yourself off of me, scoot up so that your vulva is right in my face and wait patiently. I stretch out my tongue and tease you back, licking you with the tip. I bit off the tip of my tongue when I was three years old, running around the bedroom at my grandma's house with my tongue hanging out and I sneezed. It fell off a week later, but it seems to have grown back.
You rock, come closer to my tongue, then sway out of my reach. I lift my head to chase you. You shift, pushing your pelvis suddenly forward until I'm drowning in your vulva, your scent, your pubic bone crushing my nose. I lick you harder, running my tongue up and down. I pull flaps of skin in between my lips and suckle, like drinking from a bag of milk. Milk comes in small bags in Hungary; I like to bite off the corner, letting the bag hang from my lips, syphoning the milk upwards into my mouth.
I tongue your folds, tug on your clitoris with my teeth. You push down on me and I push my tongue up into you, soaking in your moisture. I love the part where your vulva rewards me with a sudden sharp taste. I reach my tongue up farther inside you, searching for more. I get the image of myself at three, crawling into momma's bed and going to her breast to find the last drop of milk she'd ever produce. She hadn't nursed me in ages and there was only a tiny bit left. I was disappointed. Your vulva still has milk for me; it rewards my seeking tongue.
Are you thirsty little one? White nectar for you to drink. The vision of a thousand monsters on top of me, punishing the little one with their crocodile eyes...
My hands reach up to you, like vines stretching towards the light and I hold you, your soft skin beneath my fingers, your living breathing flesh. You are here. You are now. Your skin is hot and you smell of sex. Let me take my fill. When you have an eating disorder, it's so hard to convince yourself that it's okay to be hungry, even when it comes to things other than food. I am hungry for you. I am not disordered any more. I want to binge on your flesh.
When I'm done, your vulva bright red from stimulation, you ease off of me and lie down on atop me, kissing me. You want to taste yourself, don't you? Don't you? I kiss you back, with the same vigor I had hours ago.
You smooth my hair, and I look up at you. You look tired, relaxed, peaceful. You lay your head against my chest and I stroke your back gently, maternally. Your body twitches slightly as it drifts off into sleep.
III.
I woke up before you did the next morning when the early sunlight was streaming through the lacy white curtains, purified by all the thin fabric. Your right arm was still draped loosely around me when I opened my eyes and the world came into focus: your eyes moving quickly under gently closed lids as you lay dreaming before me, your hair mussed by sleep, your lips slightly parted.
I lay there watching you, perhaps drifting back into sleep for a while, waking to gaze at you some more. I watched you stir, watched your big brown eyes flutter open and tried to pretend I hadn't been watching you all this time.
You yawned, stretched, and scooted closer to me, resting your head on my chest. I felt your eyelashes against my breast when you blinked and I knew you hadn't gone back to sleep. I ran my fingers lightly through your hair, unsure if I was waking you or pushing you back into the dream world.
You stirred, stretched a bit and put your lips to mine. I kissed you, pressed your body so close to me, savoured you. The kiss woke me up finally, took me out of my early morning daze, made me want you just as much as I had the night before. My vulva whined hungrily at me, but I told it to be patient and focused my attention on kissing you, sucking your tongue into my mouth and not letting you have it back. I ran my fingers against your bare shoulders--we hadn't bothered with pyjamas once we'd finally managed to pull ourselves away from each other long enough to fall asleep.
I clasped you to me and without breaking the kiss, rolled us over so I was lying on top of you. I tickled the roof of your mouth with my tongue and pulled away to kiss your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. I had intended to only kiss your lips teasingly and move on to your neck, but you pushed your tongue into my mouth, put your arms around me, and kept me where I was. I opened my eyes to look at you. Your eyes were closed, your face relaxed. I shut my eyes and lost myself in your warm tongue. I read once that the tongue was the strongest muscle in the body--or was it the most flexible?--I don't know what I made of it at the time, but kissing you, I believed it.
I reached my hand down beneath you, squeezing your soft, soft ass as I continued my attack on your mouth. Finally, I pulled away and kissed your neck. I found your left ear and pulled your earlobe into my mouth, sucking it hard until I felt your fingernails in my back. I tongued your ear with the same thirsty strokes I would later use on your cunt. I sunk my teeth into your ear and you moaned: a long, low sound from the base of your throat, a primal call that woke up ancient feelings inside me--instincts passed down through the generations all the way down the line to me. If I'd had a penis, it would've been erect. Instead, my vulva ached. I pressed my body into yours, wanting to get closer than we already were, closer than touching.
You took my left hand in yours and guided it down towards your vulva which was already wet, already waiting for me. I massaged your labia, pushing my middle finger against your clitoris, and shifted the weight of my hand, tasting your skin with my fingertips ever so slowly. You moaned again as I touched you, as I nibbled and sucked on your ear, pressing my weight down into you (or were you pressing up into me?) My fingers slipped lower. As I entered you, I became aware of the sharp smell of sex. It made me pull you closer to me, clutch at your walls like straws. You leaned your head back, baring your neck like a wolf admitting defeat, submitting, but I am no alpha female, not in this pack of two, not when you have me wanting to accede to your every whim.
Your vulva squeezed around my fingers, pushing me, pulling me, begging my fingers to enter you deeper and I pushed further inside. You were warm and soft and I didn't want the feeling to end as you rewarded me time and again with your wetness. I kissed your face: your forehead, your nose, your mouth, your mouth, and your mouth again.
My hands were hot and sticky from the exchange of energy, from the trembling fingers, the heat. Sex always feels like I'm clinging to something I'm afraid of, something I don't want to let go of. Sex is a play between the desire to push someone far away while pulling them so close they can almost see into your soul. (Don't look, I'm afraid of what you might find.)
We had been going at it for hours and the sun was already high in the sky with its gentle rays painting light patterns onto our flesh, but I could still make you shake and inhale sharply and cry out just as easily as I could when we started.
Your arms were clasped tightly around my back when you rolled us over, whispered "come on babe, give me a turn," and pushed your tongue into my mouth hungrily. You nibbled my lips and when you ran your fingers down my round stomach I felt like the goddess of your age old fantasies. You wasted no time touching me, smoothing my skin with your hand, exhausted though you must have been.
When your hands found my vulva, it was wet and relaxed, the result of hours of feasting on your flesh. It sucked your fingers in greedily and though I would have said I couldn't get more wet than
this, my vulva rewarded you with fresh milk. You make me squirt so easily, baby. You made me come until the walls of my vagina felt hollow and spongy beneath your fingertips, until the puddle beneath me grew cold, until my cunt trembled in anticipation whenever you started touching me faster (or was it just because you'd tuckered it out?)
I was staring at my closed eyelids, which were wet because it was so damn good when I felt your warm moist hands slip behind my shoulders and your soft, gentle weight shift on top of me. You kissed my face, the corners of my eyes where the tears were resting and I looked up at you and smiled. You smiled back, a mirror of mine, and let me gaze at you for a while before resting your cheek against my breast, nestled once again like a child in his mother's arms.
THE END
there's more stories, though, if y'all want 'em.
(zenu sam zamorila i uspavala)
(postponing the pleasure to feel it and appreciate it more fully 
samo znam "no hablo espanjol" i "alejate" i "yo quero" 
