How sweet to walk with you, hand in hand. Your touch is so warm. My hands are cold, always, and yours are so warm. Our fingers entwine, such a comprehensive embrace¸ and your thumb strokes the back of my hand, so slow and gentle. We walk and I speak a thousand inconsequential things.
It is hard to walk, my feet want to dance, and I see along our path a bridge. An iron-boned bridge thrown over a spring that winds through this park and I run, tugging you along to stand on its humped back. I stand by the railing and watch the brown waters drag under us squawking ducks and tumbled leaves and branches. I watch the flow, your hands gripping the railing on either side, and I lean back into your warmth. You nuzzle me, kiss my neck and I notice as I arch back to offer you more, I am mirroring the very curve of the bridge. The bridge arches its back in a high tight curve of iron tension: a woman’s curve of impending ecstasy. I suddenly imagine all around me a garden of desire.
The bridge is a woman arched, splayed-legged, in that taut unbearable moment before orgasm, her hair spreading out is the wandering lanes leading to unfolding scenarios of desire. Look, there! in the shadows, a man of iron thrusts at a slender sapling, a smooth skinned tremulous birch; further along a chain of iron women stand - holding hands - around a virile oak, and a woman embraces it, one long leg around the muscular bole, taking the hot sap, the thrust of earthy passion in some odd druidic ritual. I am seeing this, imagining designing, creating this.
A place for lovers to embrace, an iron garden, planted with desire. I tell you, I explain, expound and you laugh. I want to plant bowers of scents, I want a garden dark with shadows; fragrant with melting desire and iron pleasure. Trees planted by passion. I laugh at myself, at my fancies, and we walk back.
You open the door, and turn on the lights, and suddenly I am once again shy; though we are lovers, this is a new thing. Last night we were fever and fear and trembling hunger. Last night was incandescent with need. This is a new thing: a prosaic arrival, the methodical rituals redolent of domesticity. I slip into the bathroom, shower, drop the folds of a nightgown over me, brush me teeth with the mindless devotion of an observant schoolgirl.
You knock and walk in, just as I am caressing my arms, my throat with jasmine lotion. You sweep aside my hair and kiss my shoulder, brush your lips up the side of my neck, tongue the hollow behind my ear and I feel the tight fist of my womb inside me unclench, spilling wetness. I turn to kiss you and you step back, draw me along through the doorway toward the bed.
Take me; you tell me, I am yours.
I’m trembling, and clumsy as I fumble your clothes from you, and watch as you lie back in a spill of moonlight, eyes closed, arms open in invitation. I kneel on the bed next to you, and run hesitant fingers down your belly. I love the sudden catch in your breath. It makes me bolder, and I touch you again, slower, more deliberate. I kiss your, licking at the generous curves of your mouth, probe at the parting of you lips, until you give me your tongue. I touch every part; trace your throat, the sweep of you collarbones with my mouth. I brush my cheeks against the crisp hair on your chest; follow the line down to your belly where you cock lies. I will not touch it. I tongue your belly all around it, feel it leap against my cheek. I slide down further and part your thighs to cup the tender mystery of you.
I draw the thin fabric o f my night gown up, over my shoulders and throw it off, onto the floor. I rise above you, onto you. And still you lie, watching so passive, so invitingly still. I straddle you and draw your cock towards me, gripped tight in my hand. I draw the tip of in across the fluted petals of wetness between my legs and cry out at the caress. I stroke myself with you, tease at the tight wet opening of my sex, and feel a sharp wanting like a pain. I hold myself still, grip you and press down slow; feeling my flesh yield, unfold, enfold you. All there is is you, your hands on me no longer still but touching caressing; firm around my waist helping me take you deeper. All there is is your eyes and your mouth and that spill of moonlight and the pistoning of your cock in me and I cry. I am all one clenching motion of desire, and you are rising under me, shuddering in me, spilling. I fall and you catch me, cradle me. I lie on you.
It is hard to walk, my feet want to dance, and I see along our path a bridge. An iron-boned bridge thrown over a spring that winds through this park and I run, tugging you along to stand on its humped back. I stand by the railing and watch the brown waters drag under us squawking ducks and tumbled leaves and branches. I watch the flow, your hands gripping the railing on either side, and I lean back into your warmth. You nuzzle me, kiss my neck and I notice as I arch back to offer you more, I am mirroring the very curve of the bridge. The bridge arches its back in a high tight curve of iron tension: a woman’s curve of impending ecstasy. I suddenly imagine all around me a garden of desire.
The bridge is a woman arched, splayed-legged, in that taut unbearable moment before orgasm, her hair spreading out is the wandering lanes leading to unfolding scenarios of desire. Look, there! in the shadows, a man of iron thrusts at a slender sapling, a smooth skinned tremulous birch; further along a chain of iron women stand - holding hands - around a virile oak, and a woman embraces it, one long leg around the muscular bole, taking the hot sap, the thrust of earthy passion in some odd druidic ritual. I am seeing this, imagining designing, creating this.
A place for lovers to embrace, an iron garden, planted with desire. I tell you, I explain, expound and you laugh. I want to plant bowers of scents, I want a garden dark with shadows; fragrant with melting desire and iron pleasure. Trees planted by passion. I laugh at myself, at my fancies, and we walk back.
You open the door, and turn on the lights, and suddenly I am once again shy; though we are lovers, this is a new thing. Last night we were fever and fear and trembling hunger. Last night was incandescent with need. This is a new thing: a prosaic arrival, the methodical rituals redolent of domesticity. I slip into the bathroom, shower, drop the folds of a nightgown over me, brush me teeth with the mindless devotion of an observant schoolgirl.
You knock and walk in, just as I am caressing my arms, my throat with jasmine lotion. You sweep aside my hair and kiss my shoulder, brush your lips up the side of my neck, tongue the hollow behind my ear and I feel the tight fist of my womb inside me unclench, spilling wetness. I turn to kiss you and you step back, draw me along through the doorway toward the bed.
Take me; you tell me, I am yours.
I’m trembling, and clumsy as I fumble your clothes from you, and watch as you lie back in a spill of moonlight, eyes closed, arms open in invitation. I kneel on the bed next to you, and run hesitant fingers down your belly. I love the sudden catch in your breath. It makes me bolder, and I touch you again, slower, more deliberate. I kiss your, licking at the generous curves of your mouth, probe at the parting of you lips, until you give me your tongue. I touch every part; trace your throat, the sweep of you collarbones with my mouth. I brush my cheeks against the crisp hair on your chest; follow the line down to your belly where you cock lies. I will not touch it. I tongue your belly all around it, feel it leap against my cheek. I slide down further and part your thighs to cup the tender mystery of you.
I draw the thin fabric o f my night gown up, over my shoulders and throw it off, onto the floor. I rise above you, onto you. And still you lie, watching so passive, so invitingly still. I straddle you and draw your cock towards me, gripped tight in my hand. I draw the tip of in across the fluted petals of wetness between my legs and cry out at the caress. I stroke myself with you, tease at the tight wet opening of my sex, and feel a sharp wanting like a pain. I hold myself still, grip you and press down slow; feeling my flesh yield, unfold, enfold you. All there is is you, your hands on me no longer still but touching caressing; firm around my waist helping me take you deeper. All there is is your eyes and your mouth and that spill of moonlight and the pistoning of your cock in me and I cry. I am all one clenching motion of desire, and you are rising under me, shuddering in me, spilling. I fall and you catch me, cradle me. I lie on you.
Me and that spill of moonlight, we lie on you.
I turn my face. I kiss you, I taste your mouth.
You laugh, slow and low, your voice rumbles through me. You say my name, once twice, then again. I cannot move and I fall asleep rocked by your voice, pierced by you; holding you in me, a sweet sticky ache. And that is how we begin.
This is how plant the very first tree for our Garden of Iron Desire.
Manuela Cardiga
You laugh, slow and low, your voice rumbles through me. You say my name, once twice, then again. I cannot move and I fall asleep rocked by your voice, pierced by you; holding you in me, a sweet sticky ache. And that is how we begin.
This is how plant the very first tree for our Garden of Iron Desire.
Manuela Cardiga
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