Desires that you can only tame to know by Ivan Donn Carswell
"Zipless sex" one cynic called this festival of fornication, this celebration of new-found sexual strength and urbane honesty, of sex for sex as sex alone and not a public test of latent puberty. These damsels riding hands and heels pursue their prey with crop and spur for prizes that are neurons firing salvoes in their bellies, not weary, vintage clichés or semen spurts that stain their pubic hair. Theirs’ is a mindless drive to join the trigger of the spasms stirring powerful surges in their loins, of reaching an orgasm.
A drama in a field I saw before while walking near the horses. A filly frisked and nipped the stallion sore until his thick, black rod arose all of a metre long, and he mounted her and rudely thrust it in with heaves that drove her flanks apart. His nostrils bulged and flared in the frenzy of his ride until she twitched, disgorged his shaft and cantered off aside. He followed, softened cock a sway, flopping side to side, a comic sight, unfinished in his business, intimidated by her flight. She lead him far and teased him every turn, standing quiet to take his shaft a moment, half a thrust, a touch, and fleeing as of whim. She milked him dry and raw, his rod withdrawn, her cleft engorged and glistening while I watched enthralled. Her wanton wiles and artist's touch had stirred me deep, it was a game she played so well I only wish her season never ended.
There is faint motive in your hunt of sexual game, of craving for extension, of seeking out exotic fruit emboldened by invention. Life's cup spills diversions in a bounty that confuses, you savour without style, relentless urges palter, you are afraid it seems to counter this inanity in case it proves a dream. A weakness of your yielding flesh, the treachery where wit cannot compel it quiet, clouds the nature of reality, and drives this single-minded search where each new conquest proves you right and fuels desire that swells until it hurts.
You are the matriarch, aloof and desolate, a valkyrie to consummate the chosen sons, anoint their swords in sacrifice and dub them heroes of the night. They rub and plunge without their eyes for miracles you promise in the valley of your thighs. Yet this vision of a vamp arcane confounds urbanity, invites derision from its very source. You seem distraught, elusive passion cedes your nerveless grip and you wield your body in erotic seas as a rudderless, sensuous ship.