Cover my mouth with your hands.

She is mine. My demon in my pocket. My dark beauty. Seductress and sleuth all wrapped In a delicious body, with lips, there is nothing softer. Mark Twain’s demon.

Like feather, down, warm silk. But softer.

But she is, she’s mean. She is probably not your cup of tea. I love her so. No, stop. I know what you are thinking. That you can somehow reason and logic this women. Nope you can’t. That somehow you can pat her thigh (oooh no) and call her a good girl (sign of the cross) and she’ll smile demurely. I mean she will. It’s, I mean. I warned you I guess. Dead man walking over here. All I’m doing is waiting to walk beside her. 

I think sometimes we are hurt so deeply that we have no idea when to stop fighting, we only know that the danger will stop when something stops moving.

So when I say you won’t tame her. That is also what I mean. She lives on a higher level a higher echelon and probably can’t see you. She won’t break, won’t bend, annoyingly so. Nope, I know,  don’t get me wrong. But this is who she is. This is her alloy. 

But when I say that my heart swells when I see her ridiculous mug. When I see her beautifully posed face, when I can reach my arms around her. When her smile greets me across a packed parking lot or a restaurant. When I know that I can sit and at all times know I’ve met my match. So you are preaching to the choir if you are annoyed with her. I can tell you it will never be as much as I have. Ever.

She is Mark Twains demon. All cigar smoke and sarcastic wit and southern charm with a penchant for a good scotch cocktail.

She is my lone Spanish melody on a dusty road covered in colors for miles and miles and there she always is, with that big smile, hand keeping her ungainly hat on her head, wearing all the colors of the rainbow as her dress and we sip wine in small bistros, as she rubs her hand against me, her tongue sweet and dirty as she lets me know in whispered detail how much she is going to love sucking me off later. And all I can feel is her fingers and her breath and this promise of her eyes looking up at me as I spurt every drop of my cum on her waiting tongue. My demon is anything but a liar. At all times, she says exactly what she means. Wanton, demonic, lecherous and pure and mine. Like a bird of prey. Mine.

Her lips are honey and spit. Her pussy is a beautiful origami and when I say I love her, I mean all of her…Even the demon.

There is a comfort to it. A knowing? But I think if she needs this, it, her, then that is who I love. That is who I try to see, all of her.  The darkness that kept her alive long enough to meet me. Look at us becoming. Aren’t we?

So I walk with her for a bit, and I am just me. I say this with all certainty, I am nothing special. I am not. So I walk with this precious women and the demon who kept her alive and I live them to there roots. I love them both as much as I can And as she looks at me with dark and magic lust, her breath panting along my flanks, I know. It is something to sit in the presence of such ferocious energy and be held. To feel like I am in the eye of a storm really. That I am something small and safe and precious. That I matter, and I have never mattered like this before. Lost in a page of romance and magic. Lost in her black and glittering eyes, melting and flashing into my heart.

It is a wonder to see her delicate finger entwined in the stem of a wine glass. And I reach for her. Her. Always her. Sometimes I reach for her to settle, and sometime because I need her touch. Just for a bit as she does I. This language of touch. This language of shhhhh, settle settle, like we are feisty horse chomping at the bit.

It is this way at night. Her heat against me. My hands on her flanks.  On her breasts. She bends her head forward, spreads her legs so she can watch herself As she quietly guides my aching cock inside of pussy. Her fingers entwined with the dark patch of hair above my pounding cock. Mixing her scent with mine. Her hand covered in spit as she licks up my leavings. She is insatiable, wanton, dark and lewd and I love every bit of her.

Sometimes she is my favorite as she sits above me. Fucking me good. Fucking me like I matter. Grabbing my face so I look at her. Or the next moment her lips passionately kissing me, grabbing my face as she sucks on my lips and fucks me. Like my cum is the only thing that fucking matters and when I say sh, sh. This isn’t stroking your ego as much as it is

Incantation. This is a spell made of her saliva and pussy juice and moist breath. This is a gods bounty. This is the only offering I can give. And I’m sorry it’s not enough but as I cum into her, her hiss is the only sound I need as she soaks me up. 

Like I matter. Like my offering matters. Like I am not shunned by the light but embraced in this twilight. And so I become who I am. And so I can see.

What a lovely thought to just be beautiful and you. Keep it, freeze it, maintain it.

I am not sure what others would do when they find a demon sucking there cock but I will tell you sir, that this one, is mine. And I care less about what she is than who she is.

She is my most favorite person to see, to make happy, and to be loved by. To love. 

I will travel this darkness to the light anyway, everyday with you. Just please, sit for awhile and hold hands with me. Please sit for awhile and let me reach my hand under your dress. As your back arches, your pussy squirting across my lips, choking the scream out of you, as I pound the cum from you with my cock.

Filling you with my sperm just as quickly as I can. Your flanks shiny with my seed. Like the white caps of a good oil painting, the darkest oceans. God you are mine. I throb deep in you. My spit drying on your neck. Couldn’t be happier.

I know the price I pay and I say to you Ma’am. You are mine.

I know the price I pay demon and I pay it willingly. It is always blood with you. Always…delicious sacrifice and a good fight and I love you just as dearly. Just as tenderly. I have sat through your storms so I can see the sunshine with her. Your eyes angry at me but in pain. Like a thorn in a sad little paw.

You are precious to me demon. As precious as your cargo. I need you. So stay with me? Hold my hand and tell me who is in the darkness? Please? Even if it’s just you. Your hands are always so cold but I think I have enough sunshine for us both and I tell you this. Yours is the type of love that we build temples from to express the extent of how they care for you. Yours is the type of love that makes men do crazy things to keep your heart beating.

You are precious to me, as you move In the darkness and touch me, all familiar and exotic.  The feel of your hands. I feel them warm as they rub against me. Like we are a spark to your heart. To the silky wetness of your insides under the savory dress you just happened to have In the back somewhere. You smell of a Spanish dusk. Spices and rum. Savoring a whiskey and a story equally engaging.
I think about later, maybe under a streetlight, dogs barking in the distance, the smell of dusk. Just dirt under your nails grabbing your asscheeks and pounding my cum into you as the world fades to dark.

You are required always, even if we fade, hormones, whatever. Just sit beside me, go for a walk? Talk to me about things I don’t care about?

Have a nice cucumber sandwich…

Well we can do all that now. So let’s just you and I. Amen.