Yearn

Yearn

It was a story told with forked tongues

from the beginning;

He told her he loved her

and she loved him.

It was a white house

with tangled, wet sheets--

he was a stone statue, marble and hard inside

but soft to the touch of her silk-palms;

Flowers nestled at her feet

He said he loved her and she loved him,

and when he made love to her

he held her down,

a prisoner of her longing

she yearns...

The whispering moments when she felt God

a sunrise in her belly, out her wet opening

soaking his torso, her wooden idol--

Satin nights wrapped their silken arms around them,

lifting them into the mysteries;

and he said he loved her

and she loved him--

But when crashing seas washed away the temple

it started slowly,

tearing at the foundations

mutilating one stone at a time

patiently

until her love alone

could not sustain it.

(c) Trinity Wolf

What A Woman Wants

This is the age old question: What do women really want? I can't speak for all women, but I can speak for myself and I'll wager a vast majority of them.

We want to know we're special. We don't want to know how hot the girl is on TV or walking past us. We don't want you to be a monk, but have some courtesy.

We want to be pursued. After we have established a relationship with you, don't stop chasing after us. Still send us love-emails and act as though we are something for which you long.

We want consistency. We like it when you keep your word, when you call when you say you will.

We like you to be the boss in bed sometimes.

We like to be the boss sometimes.

We want you to ask us what feels good and what turns us on--preferably in a hot-breath query right in our ear while we writhe under you.

We want to be cherished. We know we aren't the first or last to grace your bed, but we want to feel that we are valued for who we are and who we are to you.

We want you to touch us in public, we want to know that you are thinking of us in all sorts of compromising positions while we eat with our friends.

Women want connection--look into our eyes when you speak, make love, listen to her.

Women want tenderness. But we also need rough hands on us during times of sweaty, bumpy-grindy sex.

Women want to be prized for their mind; nothing turns me on more than a man who reads my blogs...

Women want appreciation for who they are, not just what they do.

Women want a man who knows who he is.

Finally, women want to melt into that longing embrace that encompasses our world and makes us forget about the laundry in the corner.

paix

Carpet Burns

Carpet Burns

Rough bumps on my back
on your knees;
tender sting
as water drips over me.
Fingers
indent me
holding me,
small bruises

a constellationof pleasure marks
grasping, holding me still.
thrusting roughly
ecstasy, implode, explode
all over the carpet
Your hand under me
protecting my skin...
but my lower back still has a rough sore
my inner thighs tremble
when I slide into water
and the sting makes me hiss
all I do is remember
the taste of your kiss.

© Trinity Wolf 4-2007

Short Story--Smack

Smack

This is the last time. God help me....

She could almost hear the whoosh of his hand through the air as it collided with her ass. The sound disconnected from the pain and seemed eternally separate, both lasting interminably but in different ways.

Smack!

"Do you understand why you're being disciplined?" He allowed his hand to caress her stinging behind softly, exacerbating the pain.

"I haven't done your shirts--"

"Haven't done my shirts, dinner's been late every night this week, the downstairs is a mess...you know all of that. Do you know why I am doing this?"

"Because I deserve it."

"And because God wants you to be a better wife, a happier person. I love you, sweetheart..."

Smack!

She didn't want to whimper, but it escaped her lips anyway. Part of her wanted to stay silent and strong; but she knew the sooner she cried, the sooner it would stop. She could feel her husband's erection on her stomach as she lay prostrate over his lap like a child, a naughty child.

She eased her ass up higher, craving the end, not wanting the anticipation to drive her mad. She wanted it over with so she could burn his goddamned dinner.

But she knew it wasn't the end.

She felt his finger trail down her crease until it tickled the downy hairs between her legs. She swallowed, allowing her legs to spread as her heart beat frantically against her ribs. His finger entered her suddenly and she cried out.

Smack!

She bit her arm, muffling her half cry, half sob.

"You see, it's all about love..."

He mounted her from behind as tears welled up in her eyes. Love...it's about love.

She packed quickly as she heard him singing from the bathroom. He sang the song from Oklahoma. That's another reason to leave. He loved musicals. He would shower and come out to tell her about his day, like she gave a rat's ass. A pang of emotion hit her because she knew deep down she loved him. But the humiliation had to stop. The pain had to stop. And she'd be damned if she was ironing one more fucking shirt.

The suitcase was from her honeymoon. It was a gift from her mother-in-law; white with pink and red flowers covering it, like every dress her mother-in-law owned and wore to church. I'm buying a plain black leather case as soon as I can. Maybe tomorrow. God forgive me, God help me.

She stood with knees quaking and her whisky sour churning in her gut as he stood before her, dripping wet, beautiful, confused.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

"Leaving."

He laughed only for a moment until her eyes told him to stop. He swallowed and blinked rapidly. "I--I don't understand. I--"

"I can't do it anymore."

"But we agreed that this was how we wanted...it to be. God--"

"God has nothing to do with this. You want to make that true, but you can't. Find it in the bible, anywhere, that says what we're doing is good for us, for me."

"Please..." he approached her and stopped, his face miserable and pale. She had backed up a step toward the door. "Honey, we can negotiate. We can stop, we can talk, we can do anything you like, just don't walk out like this."

"Anything I like?"

"Yes, I love you and I thought you loved me." The hurt registered on his face like a small child. She could almost see his mind piecing together where it had gone wrong, what had gone wrong.

She did love him. She did. The plastic handle from her case felt slick as her palms gave up their moisture and her knees wobbled with fear. She gently set the case down and walked toward him. He dropped his towel and stood naked before her, head down. She tilted his chin up to her.

"I can't do it anymore. Do you understand?"

"Okay, anything you want. Anything--" she held her hand up to his quivering lips and let it slide down to his cock. It grew erect with her touch, and he let out a gasp as she gripped him firmly.

"From now on, we're going to share in the household responsibilities."

"I--okay, I don't know how to iron--"

"The cleaners does shirts!" Her voice bounced off of the walls and echoed into the silent room. He nodded his head as his cock grew firmer and sweet, clear liquid eased from the tip.

She turned him around and pressed him against the wall near to the bathroom door. She stroked him as he closed his eyes and mumbled his apologies, his devotion. His words were interrupted as she brought her hand around to his face. His eyes widened as she raised it up--and back.

She expected protest; she expected anger, and all she saw was his eyes clenching shut, body stiff with expectation.

Smack!

He whimpered much sooner than she expected.

(c) Trinity Wolf, 2007

Bad Little Wifey

This is inspired by fellow blogger, Slut, from A Whore in the Temple of Reason.

She, via her blog, introduced me to a site called Christian Domestic Discipline or CDD.

Oh.
My.
God.

The basic premise of the site is that men are the bosses, women are subservient to them, and if they get outta line, the man reserves the right to resort to corporeal punishment via spanking using hands, rods or whatever else comes in handy. Spare the rod, spoil the missus?

What is there to say about this other than "denial...is an ugly thing." If we were to get inside the heads of some of these people, I think we'd find what's in a lot of people's heads when it comes to BDSM: a desire to dominate and the desire to be dominated. Only these people are using the bible and God to sanction and justify the behavior. Why do they need to do that? Why can't they just enjoy the prospect of exploring each other's sexual shadow-side?

I think it has to do with the deep-seated belief that sexual feelings and acts are inherently evil in the sight of God, so the ideal solution to that is to take God's "word" and twist it to accommodate their desire for BDSM. The hysterical part is they don't use any actual bible quotes to sanction the practice. They gather quotes about a man being the "protector" and a wife being "subservient", but, and I'm gonna stretch a bit here, nowhere in the bible does it say "If she' acts naughty, lift her little skirt and swat her until she's red and wet!"

But there's another element to it that is disturbing. From the website it reads:

"What makes this model unique in the current times and culture is that the
husband, in order to love his wife, has decided to use what might be called
‘God mirroring’ or ‘practical godliness’ - in other words, a following of
God's methods of how He uses authority, and how God expects and tells mere
humans to carry out their delegated authority. This leads to
physical discipline to lovingly keep the wife accountable to her master’s God given authority. After these marriage relationships have been living
with the husband as head and the wife in subjection to his authority, the wife
always desires greatly to have this type of relationship with her husband,
feeling that the husband is showing practical love when he corrects
her with physical and painful discipline for sinful habits or other various
things. She wants to be in subjection and so obeying means allowing
discipline in any way her master/husband determines is necessary."

What's disturbing is that for many, BDSM is a sort of lifestyle choice at the most, a game at the very least. These Christians have formed a belief system around it that could easily get out of hand in the wrong... hands. I mean, what's the safety word for the wife in CDD Land?

"No, honey, stop! Stop! Uh...Moses!"

There is no safety word and there is no game. It is the real deal where no one cuddles after and no one feels like equals in the end. You are punished, humiliated and you are less-than.

Leave it to the Christians to fuck up the fun.

Paix

Have you found me yet?

I finally have a permanent home for my writing blog.

God, what an ordeal. But here I am.

And now...more poetry.

Slow Motion

It was in that agonizing fashion
that she twirled the cube of ice on her tongue
before she crushed it playfully in her mouth.

A small droplet of water held onto her lips
Clinging to the softness like a
stubborn dew drop on a petal...
and in a perfect world time would still
and I would stand slowly and walk around to her.

I would release the droplet from her mouth,
Release her breasts from her shirt
And claim them all for my own.

In slow motion I’d kneel before her
I’d part her
I’d bury myself in her
While gulls flew overhead, wings fluttering
And their calls muted by daylight noise
All silenced in the moment when her legs
Shimmied on my shoulders.

Her little flight to the heavens would awaken All
And the feasting around us
would begin anew as I slowly stand,
Smooth out my skirt
And make my way back to my untouched
Afternoon feast.

© Trinity Wolf

Welcome...Hold on Tight

Welcome to my blog. I hope we can build a long lasting love affair together.



I will try and titillate you if you promise to tell me. This is going to be my creative, sexual outlet (besides a certain someone--yes I am taken, often, but not often enough) I hope you enjoy the ride like I will. Here is a poem for your trouble...

Fucking in the Back seat of a car

We're fucking in the back seat
of a car
and lips press
thighs sweat
knees and elbows
sky and lights make noises
screams

cars light up pieces of sound and darkness
but not enough as widow fog
creeps a candle of light
illuminate
proliferate
supplicate

linear squash and humping bumping
and sound in a tin can echoes...
SSERP
is PRESS spelled backwards
indented in my ass

© Trinity Wolf, 2007