the revenge of those unsaid words

“I’m wishing for you to sleep,” she said, speaking quietly.

“I’m wishing for you to have this dream,” I replied, my voice also low, barely over a breath.

Our voices huddled together in the darkness.  I would have opened my eyes but even the unlit room would have held too much light.  And somewhere far away, I was hoping she too was keeping her eyes closed.  It’s how we make the distance disappear.  It’s the only way.

Whispering to her before, in a voice drowsy and full of sleep, the dream is this:

Reclining on the couch, her body lying in mine, a half seated half lying position, muscles relaxed, resting.  The kind of position that allows for shallow breaths, her body curling alongside mine, leaning against the fabric, clawing against my skin.

It’s the closeness we want, we crave so much.  Her body against mine, the skin contact, as we might as well be naked, we’re so close.  Any fabric is pressed so tightly between us that it vanishes.  There aren’t any words necessary when we can communicate like this, the breath hanging in the air so delicately and tenuously.

And that’s the kind of silence that is odd yet completely comfortable when we’re on the phone.

Hearing her breathing, knowing she can hear mine, we sit with our ears pressed against the receivers.  It’s almost a waste of technology, a slap in the face of all the wires and signals flickering digital, wavering analog, between her and me.

And yet it’s enough, to know that in this exact moment, the final few moments before sleep, that her voice is in my ear.  It’s what wraps around me so tightly, slipping underneath the last remaining fortress walls.

This is the fantasy, the sweet seductive lie, that lulls me to sleep.

The intersection of a wish and her voice.

Where we say goodbye, goodnight, and I close my eyes.

sugasm #137

It’s nearly 04:30 and I haven’t slept a wink tonight.  I’m stuck in yesterday even though the clock and calendar tell me with a brutal honesty that time continues to march onward.  I can only sigh wearily because my mind isn’t ready yet, to believe them.

It’s a good time to post this up, then:

This Week’s Picks

I can only be what I am.
“It’s strangely refreshing, to really submit and give up that control, and not have to make decisions.”

Don’t we all struggle with identity… a nice piece on accepting and emerging better for it.

Over the Edge
“He tells me to hold still, in that soft, controlling voice of his.”

Powerful.  Blunt and sharp, all at once.

A Story Told Out of Order and Out of Character - Part 4
“You thought you could just come to my room and tease me?”

This is a bit cold, and a bit rough.  I think I like it though.

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
A former slut examined

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

the ___ ___ war

“[six],” she said, pulling her shirt up and over her head, her hair pouring down from the neck of the shirt and onto her shoulders, “where have you been?”

My shirt was gone already, my pants undone but still on, leaning backwards on the bed on my elbows. I blinked, maybe a second too long.

“Oh I see,” she said, stepping closer, her knee folding upwards as she reached the edge of the bed, her hands behind her back, arms bent; the sudden slack in her bra straps revealed that she had undone the clasp. “Well I hope you’ve been keeping her happy.”

I started to shake my head, which was the wrong thing to do.

“So you… haven’t kept her happy?” she asked, leering at me. “Can’t you do anything right?”

(I had burned the fish slightly. The early-Spring steelhead trout was to be steamed and seared with seasonings, not charred. Never mind that the rest of the meal was perfect, the asparagus tender-crisp, the almonds perfectly roasted. The wine paired excellently, with the fish, the salad, the sides. And still, despite this, the wisps of smoke from beneath the lid I’d placed on the cast iron grill pan called out “failure, [six]!”)

She was on the bed now, crawling. A knee landed square between my legs. Another, on the outside of my thigh. A hand poked the bed next to my waist. The other hand higher up, alongside my chest. Her back arched, like a cat in stretch, her hips up but her chest falling, curving away downward, brushing against me, hair falling on my face. I breathed steadily. Even as she rocked gently forward, her weight on her straight arms now holding her chest up, her hips falling, legs spreading, her warmth now landing on my thigh. Scraping against my knee, and slowly warmer as she let her weight shift again, sitting and slowly moving back and forth rubbing herself against my leg.

It was wet.

The moisture seeping through the underwear, now like a hot breath expelled against my knee and thigh. Smeared back and forth in a sawing motion as her eyes closed, her lip half-bitten, the slightest sliver of her upper teeth gleaming at me.

I reached out for her bra, slipping the straps off her shoulders, the first touch of my hands on her skin. It was cold against my hands, the icy stare from her eyes not isolated to her face only. I withstood the chill. I gritted my teeth and pulled her in closer, reaching behind her, my eyes on her breasts, nipples hard and hanging below her tender curves, dangerously close to brushing against my chest.

She continued to saw herself back and forth. The moments with her eyes closed grew longer. Her breath grew shorter.

My hand dared to move down her body. Pressing flat against her chest, between her breasts, I snuck it lower and lower. I felt the falling and rising of her breathing. I felt the results of her tireless trips to the gym. I slid over her navel. I found the waist of her panties. And I pulled.

The tug caught her off guard, the muffled “mmmf” escaping as the fabric was pulled taut against her clit. Against her pussy. Against my leg.

Her hand landed on my chest, nails digging in. I pulled some more. She pressed harder. It was a matter of attrition.

It was a matter of time, before my hands were around her hips, pulling her towards me. Tugging and pulling her panties off; her hands, my hands reaching as far down as they could, pulling them off her legs. All the while her nails not relenting in their steady offensive assault. Half of her weight resting on top of my stomach, still off center, using her thigh and knee to hold herself steady.

My hand reaching between her thighs cupped her pussy, the heel of my palm moving in a swaying motion, side to side. My fingers prodding her folds, the warmth and wetness slipping inbetween my knuckles. It was a swift counter-attack, the pressure on my chest less, her eyes shut tightly. And like gravity in reverse, my fingers pointed upward, slipping into her wetness, plowing between her soft folds, and deep into her pussy.

The wetness made it easy. The position of my arm made it hard. My forearm flexed as my wrist curled upward each time I thrust my fingers into her. My other hand found its way to her breast, my hand spread wide over the soft bulge, her hand quickly covering mine, her fingers pulling and twisting at the nipple escaping just past the webbing between my thumb and index digit.

I witnessed this act of treason, her fingers mercilessly betraying her own body, with deep interest. Her body started to slump forward, her hips shake, and her pussy tighten. And in an instant, she shoved herself onto my fingers, her arm buckling under her weight, my arm unable to keep her steady. Her head landed on my shoulder hard, the sudden weight with a sharp pain added as an exclamation mark making me wince.

Her body on mine, I wriggled my hand free. My fingers were covered in a mixture of her sticky wetness and blood, the pinkish combination speckled with dried up crimson brown smeared all the way to the palm.

I felt her arm moving, her hand dragging itself roughly across the sheets. Over my waist, over my thigh, pulling my pants finally off as she lifted her hips and legs up, my legs wriggling to help. Her hand moved slowly but steadily, upward again until her fingers wrapped around my cock. She let her body slide off to the side of mine, her hand not tugging or pulling at me, not jerking or moving, but instead squeezing. Her grip tightened and loosened in rhythm, my cock growing harder and harder, the blood rushing in with every squeeze of her hand. What a dirty tactic.

Holding out became a fast fading option. After her pussy rubbing against my leg. After her hands on my chest. After her body writhing on top of mine. After her nipple pinched and twisted by her own hand. After her orgasm riding down my fingers.

She didn’t have to jerk hard. Or fast. Or anything, really.

And with little warning I tightened up, my jaw slack and eyes shut as I came, her hand milking my cock. One, two, three splashes of cum fired into the air, landing warm then quickly cold, on my chest and my neck.

My hand instinctively reached for it, too late, smearing her blood with her cum and mine.

She lumbered to her feet, a drunken series of steps to the bathroom, the sound of the faucet on. I got up slowly, finding her wiping herself clean, her face wincing slightly, the bloody toilet paper staining everything pink and red. She left to go dig in her purse for a tampon, I think. Looking in the mirror, I started to wipe myself off, and only now I wonder why I didn’t just go in the shower.

Looking at the toilet, however, the toilet paper accumulated, I couldn’t help but think of something pertaining to casualties, violence, and the loss of human life. It’s the cost of war.

father’s day

I took a stab at innocence the other day, and yes, it’s as violent as you would think it would be.

I sat on the couch, too many things on my mind. The television was filled with flashing images accompanied by loud sounds. I can’t believe that these are now the cartoons that children watch. That kind of fascination fades too quickly though, and I had so many other things to think and worry about.

It must have been obvious.

The little boy had stopped playing with his action figures (a mixed bunch, Spiderman in mid web-slinging and a robot of some sort - they suddenly found themselves in peace, lying next to each other, the war they had been waging now over) and stood up, giving me a curious look. He found the remote, and turned the television off, the screen now dark. He sat down next to me.

“What’s the matter?” the little boy asked.

I was surprised - a strange mixture with amusement at his question, but more with the way he asked it. He invited elaboration with his inflection.

“I’ve got problems,” I answered with a sigh.

His feet barely touched the ground after he hopped up on the couch next to me. Spiderman and the robot lay on the floor, abandoned for the time being.

“Me too,” I was surprised to hear. But not really. He reminds me a lot of myself when I was a child.

* * * * * *

“I’m sorry,” she said, in her typical apologetic-non-apologizing way, “but if you want kids, it ain’t happening with me.”

I don’t really remember why we started talking about it. But I imagine it began with our hopes and aspirations, and took a sudden turn with her statement.

I’m pretty sure I want kids. I’m still pretty young, and younger still when this conversation took place, but I feel like it’s something beyond the primeval urge to propagate. I want to be a father. To tend to and take care of a person, to give them a fair chance at life. I know that sounds really pretentious and hokey - it really might.

My father was never a part of my life. He was there sometimes, working long hours in a taxicab while we lived in Queens. Or, doing whatever handywork he could to make ends meet.

But we never talked. He never cared about what I was doing, learning, or achieving. We never played catch, talked sports, or sat down, as a father would go from towering over his son to suddenly being on the same level.

The divorce separated us completely, and even after the incidental contact here and there - it was his death that really solidified the fact that he was gone - and never coming back. I heard about it long after it happened. I didn’t cry, and still won’t feel more than the faintest pang of sadness and pain. That’s the kind of dark, black, cold hardness that I have for the man who gave me half of my genetic makeup.

I think that kind of sucks.

Of course my life’s taken some strange turns here and there, and my mother had long ingrained in my head that I was to be the “man of the house,” and had to take care of everything. It forces you to grow up very quickly.

But as dead as my feelings were for my father, I can’t deny the feelings of wanting to be a father. Maybe it’s the desire to have someone look up to me as much as I want to look after them. I have a strong desire to teach by example, to influence someone’s life, to give them everything they need to make the right decisions in life.

And maybe, I have (this silly) faith that if I can do just anything better than my father did, to give them any better of a childhood - that the child would turn out to be a better person than me.

* * * * * *

She wouldn’t have it. No, she flatly refused, the joking nature of her voice only hiding the stern decision in her voice never to have children.

I’m not going to go into detail, like how I argued that I wasn’t implying that I’d wanted kids right then and there - or that I wasn’t ready to take care of a pet, let alone a child - or that I was simply too young and too selfish to put myself in charge of the well-being of someone else - or that I knew she wasn’t emotionally or mentally ready. But it didn’t lead to an argument. Only to the deflation of hope, the slow and sad bleeding out - as I resigned my opinion and let her talk some more while I blankly didn’t listen.

* * * * * *

“What kind of problems would a kid like you,” I said as I tussled the boy’s hair, “possibly have?”

He smiled weakly with his mouth but pouted with his eyes.

“I worry about Mommy. And where Daddy went,” he said, his voice quiet. I know those kinds of worries. I know that kids his age shouldn’t have these kinds of worries.

He stopped. Almost as if he felt that he’d said too much. And I looked at him, his eyes dropped down to his shoes, feet dangling and swinging back and forth as they bounced off the cheap chintzy couch’s upholstery. I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have to hide behind his childhood, that the action figures and television shows and homework and dodgeball - that it’s all okay.

“Tell me something,” he spoke, still looking at his shoes. “Tell me something sad.”

I could have told him anything. I could have told him about my father, about my childhood, about my job, about the fact that I’d run away from my home because his father and I were in serious trouble with dangerous men, about the cuts and bruises on my face and body, about the fear I felt, about the woman with the scars who had materialized so beautifully in my life, about the women I’d left behind… all of it didn’t seem right.

“I think,” I started to say, the fate of this conversation sealed in its sorrow, “that you should be careful of anyone who says they love you.”

He turned and looked at me. His eyes didn’t question me, they didn’t judge the weight of my words, or wonder why I was telling him this sad sad fact. He listened.

“The people who say they love you, it’s dangerous. Love itself is dangerous, and you might not understand what I’m saying just yet, but I want you to understand that it’s not easy. It shouldn’t be and it’s the most complicated thing in the whole world. Your Mom will tell you that she loves you, and your Dad will tell you that he loves you, and they do. But you’ll meet people in your life that will tell you that they love you, and you might feel like you have to tell them that you love them back. And you might. You might love them as much as they love you, but for every love you have, you have to let them hurt you.

“Love is painful. It’s hurts because it might not last forever, and because people change, and things change, and love can live and grow and die. These people that will say those three words to you, ‘I love you,’ they’ll want to tell you. They will want so desperately to say it that it might change things, it might make you think differently or feel differently.

“So anyone who tells you that they love you - you’ve done something. You’ve entered their life, and changed it. You’ve showed them a part of you, you’ve told them something, you’ve taken something from them, or given them a part of you. So you get it, right? Don’t show them something you don’t want to. You can’t hide from them, once they tell you that they love you. That part of you, it’s theirs. They love you because they want what you’ve shown them.

“I’m not making love sound so great, am I? But you have to try. And I want you to promise me, that you won’t end up like me - that you won’t be afraid to tell someone that you love them, okay?”

He nodded.

I sighed. I felt worse than horrible.

There was a park, only a block away from the apartment. I motioned to his ball, glove, and Yankees’ hat.

“Let’s go play catch,” I suggested. “While we have some daylight left.”

He hopped up, and grabbed his glove and ball, tossing the hat aside. It was way too big for his head, I now saw. It was his father’s.

I scribbled a quick note, in case his mother came home while we were out.

And so we went and played catch, him, for want of having a father, and me, for want of having a child, but really, so I could teach him how to throw and how to catch.

a gentle torture

I slunk into my chair, letting loose a sigh.

It was definitely an exasperated sigh. A breath of satisfied dissatisfaction.  I forced myself to be disappointed and displeased.  And distracted.  I mean really - there was no way I would have made it back to my desk with a hard cock sticking out proudly in my pants.

Just five minutes ago, I sat in the farthest conference room - you know, the one everyone forgets is there sometimes - listening to her.  My ear pressed up to the phone, finding myself wishing I could be there - in the same room, on her bed, the distance evaporating into nothingness.

We had started innocently enough - talking about the day.  A friend was to take me to get ice cream later, a pleasant walk and some chit-chat.  And she had told me that there were errands to run.  But those were all activities filed under the label “to be done later,” because for now, in the greatest immediacy - we were talking about being together.

What a dangerous topic.

“Be here now, kissing me,” she typed hurriedly.  She then added it was useless.

“Close your eyes, fall into my arms,” I replied.  No, it’s not useless.

It’s too easy to be seduced by the memories.

And so that is how I found myself calling her.  She, escaping to her bed; me, escaping to that distant and far conference room.  We didn’t have much time.

It was enough to hear her voice - to have her hear mine.  Her hands over her body as mine in proxy, my voice soothing her, starting to craft a ghost of myself for her.  I listened eagerly to the moans and the sighs, the breaths and the cries, desperately putting myself right there with her.  My mouth on her nipples, twisting away with sucking and tonguing, as my hands poured themselves over every inch of her body.  My body naked with hers, the clothing flung off and away as fast as possible.  My cock lying in wait between her thighs slowly and surely closer and closer.

And of course, as I described the feeling of her wet pussy enveloping me in that familiar and sadly missed tightness, I let her sounds numb me to my physical surroundings.  What a fantasy - listening to her cum, loud-hard-fast in my ear.

It was so brief.  But I sat there in a puddle of aroused frustration, unable to touch myself, to address the hardness in my pants, and bit my lip.  This was torture, but I didn’t really mind.  With a sharp breath in, checking to see if the wetness of precum was visible in my pants, I got up, and scurried back to my desk.

a quiet word to you, and you know who you are

I don’t mean to stare - really, I don’t.

It’s rude to point, and yet my eyes are doing just that; standing still in mid-step, locked not on your eyes (which have already drawn me in close) but instead on… your scars.

No, no, no - don’t turn away, please. Stay. Just. Like. That.

Just like that; I can see them for what they are. They’re not what you think, not anymore, anyway.

You’d prepared me to see them; I’d prepared myself. And yes, I caught a glimpse, up close. But maybe I didn’t really see them. Holding your hand, feeling your body so close to mine, somehow snared with a kiss in the middle of the street in front of people passing by; yes, I’m sorry I didn’t see them then - my mind was somewhere else yet exactly here.

But it was after we’d stripped our clothing off, the lust burning bright and hot like magnesium in a flare - after our bodies had touched, skin to skin, the tactile sensation in a strange way both extinguishing our need for contact and yet igniting further desires - after the kiss, the proximity of my face to yours - after the moving of our hips, the first touch, that initial pressure, the slow slide inward deeper and deeper into you - after the crushing weight of that initial fuck - after the gasping, the moaning, the clutching for sounds in your throat -

It was then that I looked at the quiet calm in front of me. Your disarmed weapons laying to the side, right next to mine.

I saw your scars.

They are echoes of a past I was never a part of. I’m only seeing them now, as they are in this moment, and will be in every moment after this one. They’re evidence - that life is brutal. That there is pain and it exists surreal, real, and unreal. That the pain leaves scars for people to see, to question, and to wonder about. But also that those scars will speak if you’re quiet enough to listen. If you stare, long past the point where it’s uncomfortable, and maybe then it somehow wraps all the way around the scale to the other side, where it’s so comfortable that the words come too easy. That you, and I, can be so honest with each other.

These scars of yours - they’re beautiful.