an exploration…

this exploration...

give me one year to properly kiss you…

give me one year to properly kiss you. and i will give you one year of surprises…

one year of surprises. one year of breakfast in bed where you will gently awaken – not to an assault on the senses by way of your alarm clock. no. there will be no need to be a slave to time as time will have no relevance. no time. only us. you will awaken only to the sound of my voice, whispering in your ear. whispering explicit details of how i want to fill the hours that follow… embroidered details of what i want to do to you as i impress that urgency upon you; or my lips softly grazing your neck, and slowly down to where i can taste the salt from the hours before; or my mouth light as air upon your mouth, my tongue urging yours to awaken and come out to play; or my wet mouth around your sex, hungry to break the fast. yes. breakfast will be served at a different time each morning. and each morning will be different. give me one year…

hour upon lascivious hour. every room in the house will reek of sex. a heady scent of arousal and sweat. and every wall, every chair, every window, every doorway – and every inch of the floor – will hold a memory of our fucking: little scratches, indentations, stains and smears. every room in the house will echo of the sound of our voices, our cries, our whispers and moans… our screams. like animals. yes. every day, we will fuck like animals. all day. every day.

the bed. the bed will be unmade, in perfect disarray. tangled sheets: as our bodies contrive, contort and strive to meld, cold and damp with sweat. the air between us heavy and sweet. the air laden with desire. a desire to slip inside one another’s skin. one year of sticky entanglement. tangled up in sheets, tangled up in each other. fingers locked: keeping arms, that ache to enfold you, outstretched and pinned down. ankles locked: keeping trembling legs, that ache to wrap themselves around your hips or your neck to bring you deeper inside me, pinned wide apart. limbs tangled, you pinned to the bed, our fingers locked behind your head. one year of closeness. closer than close. you inside me, me inside you. one year of disarray and entanglement. one year of fingers locked and arms outstretched, screaming for mercy in complete submission – aching for that sublime release of tension. one year of tangled limbs, legs spread wide and bruised avid mouths and… sleep will have to wait… i need one year. give me just one year. one year without sleep… one year of grappling hands and bitten fingers; of handfuls of hair and clenched jaws; of curled toes and wet thighs… three hundred and sixty five nights of insomnia. but if we sleep, we sleep only to awaken and resume our exploration.

inside, there will be no need for clothes. give me one year…

one year of afternoon reading to each other. reading in the bathtub: one year of gentle afternoons where we will lay in the bathtub and read aloud to each other. yes. stolen, fragrant afternoons. warm silken water, glorious wine and an intoxicating stack of books. give me one year… reading in bed: one year of bedtime stories. and i will light a thousand candles for those long, dark winter afternoons…

give me one year…

let me bathe you. let me shave you. picture this, if you will, one year of shaving brushes and cold, shining razor blades. blindfolded, i will shave you. danger requires trust. deprivation of one sense serves only to heighten the others. i will not cut you, but, if i do you can punish me, deny me of what i crave. or you can put me across your knee, pull down my panties and smack me. you can unfold me, blindfold me… you can shave me. shave my cunt. would you like that? i would like that – smooth, like velvet soft petals. and if you cut me, you must kiss it better – or we can just fuck the pain away, savour a heady cocktail of blood and…

can you taste it? give me one year. just one year.

one year of surprises… an exploration.

maybe a trip to Venice; a weekend of twilight games of hunter and hunted in the twisted, narrow streets. we will be like animals. you the predatory wolf, me the doe at your mercy. the chase. the hunger, the feral desire. hunt me down and corner me, toy with me, take me in your mouth and devour me…

please. just one year. give me one year…

one year of spontaneity. one year of ambushed sex attacks: one year of being thrown over the couch, thrown onto the bed, thrown across the table and panties torn off. unrestrained: handfuls of hair, fingers scoring backbones and the soft flesh of the thighs. chance grazings. yes. un coup de main. one year of spontaneity. awakened in the middle of the night to find restraint and limbs spreadeagled and chained to furniture. sex exposed, beaten, eaten, raw. yes, one year of ambushed sex attacks and visceral surprises… for one year. give me one year…

one year of my focus. one year of Polaroid pictures. documented. one book of hundreds of sex pictures: each with a different story.

an exploration… a journey.

one year of travelling, and unravelling. one year of plane rides, sailboats and long train rides. i want long, sensual train rides with you. your sex, near prehensile, as satiation of desire takes priority. a priority over breathing as our hips snake with the momentum of the train, cross country… in and out of tunnels and crossing boundaries. one year…

one year of hotel rooms, of anonymity and depravity. fuck decadence. one year of being pinned against the walls in hotel corridors. one year in different countries, in different hotel beds and on different bathroom floors… torrid convulsions amid the carnage of wet towels, broken glass and forgotten room service… one year of hotel rooms. give me just one year… one year of desperate fumblings in the seedy underbelly of red lit cities, in darkened alleyways, over balconies, in taxicabs, beneath restaurant tables and in art gallery washrooms. one year of bruised lips and grazed knees…

one year of exploration…

one year of being filthy. one year of fucking. dirty and depraved fucking. the smell of sex. the taste of sex. one year of exploring boundaries and the voracity of our appetites for filth and satisfaction. one year of orgasm, after orgasm, after delicious orgasm… one year of intense exploration of your mind, your body, your imagination, and the very base of your nature. one year.

just one year, of exploration…

give me one year to properly kiss you.

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22 thoughts on “an exploration…

  1. In another life you said you like my honesty. Well in this reincarnation I love yours. I wish I had the courage to live the life you write! I slowly open new desires & present them to my lover, but I want it all, now. Kat, thanks as always for your inspiration. x (Mel)

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    • i just write what i feel, Mel… and i feel a lot. hahhaha… sometimes to the chagrin of others! but i don’t care. life IS too short not to live our lives the way we want to live them; not to furnish our lives with chosen friends, lovers, books, journeys and memento vivere. i just write what i feel. and i can be highly spontaneous. life is too short not to. simple.

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  2. Possibly the most evocative and provocative thing you’ve written yet. It’ll either invade my dreams or keep me awake all night. xx

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  3. Good stuff Kat. Honest, visceral, and very hot. I could do a year of that, even at my age. No, especially at my age. I like your passionate, poetic, and honest writing quite a bit.

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  4. Intense and powerful Kat, difficult to say if I love more your images or your words. You expressed perfectly the powerhouse that feeds two new lovers – some are able to feel that, few are able to put it in words as well as you.
    For intensity (not for style) this reminded me of Jana Cerna.
    Glad to have found you
    Davide

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