[Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal We believe that people who love erotica are more than just faceless members sitting at a computer looking at photos of nameless models. We are a community, a cooperative, a society of people that are more than the dollar amount of their site memberships. Deviant Nation We believe that people who love erotica are more than just faceless members sitting at a computer looking at photos of nameless models. We are a community, a cooperative, a society of people that are more than the dollar amount of their site memberships. We are striving to combine community, subculture, artistic expression and erotica all at once. Deviant Nation satan@deviantnation.com Girls,Pinup,Tattoo,Pierced,Goth,Punk,Rockabilly,emo,Metal,Subcultures yes http://deviantnation.com/girls/Lanius en-us Copyright 2003-2008 Deviant Nation, Inc. satan@deviantnation.com Sat, 15 Mar 2003 07:00:00 GMT Fri, 21 Nov 2008 09:47:59 GMT 60 DN Logo http://i.deviantnation.com/i/dn-logo-small.png http://deviantnation.com Deviant Nation 76 144 Rain clouds http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76576 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius It hasn&rsquo;t rained in ages it seems and the grass underneath us is dry, but still, somehow, green. I can still tear it from the stem instead of pulling it until it breaks - that almost hay-like texture that seizes one of my favorite parks despite the sprinklers and a diligent lawn crew. Summer has made itself known, I think to myself as the sweat beads on my forehead and slips down my back. Perspiration forms on even covered skin amid the vibrant and glowing stare of the evening sun. It hasn&rsquo;t set yet and the air still feels heavy, laden with humidity. Rain clouds loom in the distance.<br /> <br /> Silence has fallen between us, that comfortable silence that comes with time and knowing the person next to you better than you probably should. I watch a wasp hovering over some heavy brush in the distance, the ducks and goose that swim in oddly straight lines along the creek. A fallen tree serves as a bridge over the dark water which houses fish and turtles, many of whom have found their evening meal tossed to them from children or other equally silent adults.<br /> <br /> I watch you brush away the clinging shards of cut grass from your thigh. I see the angry mark that shows just under the line of your shorts, a reminder of other, less gentle, less introspective days. The wind blows and I will it to cool my skin, but my shirt refuses to budge, keeping the heat in. A shadow creeps across the land, slowly moving over the grass until we are slowly swallowed by the welcome tint of blue and gray amid the orange and red. The sensation of heat abates and I lay back against the lawn, staring up into the blue sky that fades into the palest shade of white.<br /> <br /> My arms fold behind my head and I swat away the high pitched squeal of a mosquito before I close my eyes. A moment later, you are curled against me; in spite of the heat, my sweat and yours, you are curled against me. My breathing evens out slowly. I am lost in the constellation of lights behind my eyelids, drifting endlessly.<br /> <br /> When they open again, the sun has crept just below the horizon, fading into a dark sky, shouting its tributes in riotous colors of purple and blue. Clouds begin to roll in lazily, stretching along and taming the sky&rsquo;s colors. My movement stirs you and I feel the stroke of your cheek through the fabric of my shirt. I roll onto my side and look down at you, all rumpled and sleepy-eyed. My fingers curl into your side and you make some noise of protest that I could never duplicate.<br /> <br /> &lsquo;Shh&hellip;&rsquo; It is a simple sound, but you obey its command. Your lips remain parted as if suspended from some unspoken thought. My fingers shift the simple material of your shirt slightly until the barest of touches brushes against your stomach. I can feel your reaction, see it reflect in your expressive face. My fingers move higher until they brush along the edge of your bra, skimming the material, the flesh that swells eagerly above it.<br /> <br /> Your breathing has changed. It comes quicker and in uneven gusts as I twist your mind and body around the world I create between us. It is only a moment later when your nipple comes to rest between my thumb and index finger. It is a casual roll, ever so light, that hardens that peak so beautifully, but the harder tug makes a moan erupt and your back arch off of the grass. A resulting rumble tumbles out of my throat and I lean down finally to brush my mouth to yours.<br /> <br /> The feel of your teeth surprises me when our mouths touch and I draw back momentarily until your lips meet mine again in what I can only describe as hungry. I feel your hands slide up until they brace against my neck and your nails, your blood red talons, dig into my skin. I am tasting the swell of your bottom lip in my mouth, my tongue running over it in a lazy fashion despite the crescent shapes you imprint into my skin. My finger twists hard suddenly and you break away, dragging your lip away, across the sharp edge of my teeth.<br /> <br /> &lsquo;Shh&hellip;&rsquo; I repeat again, glancing up ensuring that our alcove has not been penetrated by unwelcome company. The sun creeps into the horizon and the sky grows darker. My fingers slide down and tug upon the tie that holds the navy shorts to your hips. It releases easily, sliding out of its pretty bow with grace. I feel your nails tighten further and stare down into your face with a silent warning; they ease only a fraction.<br /> <br /> I know without looking that your panties are white, an insubstantial lace that looks so delicate and erotic against your skin. You are a creature of habit and colors and fashion. The barrier melts away under the tips of my fingers, your flesh yielding sweetly as my fingers dip between your thighs and into the waiting moisture. The tension in your fingers tighten again and I feel a sharp sting followed by a trail of moisture that trickles down my neck.<br /> <br /> &lsquo;Bloodthirsty.&rsquo; My lips brush against your ear, the sound of your breathing and mine seeming as if inside a hollow tunnel. I feel your body arch up against me and I slid my fingers lower, pushing a single finger inside the hot tunnel of your sex. My teeth graze along your neck, the curve of your shoulder. &lsquo;So wet, open up for me.&rsquo; It is a simple statement, but the words echo and reverberate in your skin and through the stiff line of my cock that presses against your side.<br /> <br /> I exhale, my thumb tracing over your clit, grazing. Soft whimpered noises emit from your mouth and wet sounds play delicately along the soft skin of your thighs. My fingers pull from you and there is a flurry of movement as I push your shorts and panties down along your legs. I can see you looking, searching the growing darkness for eyes. There is always the chance of getting caught fucking on the lawn of some city park. The idea excites us both and makes the movements jerky.<br /> <br /> I move above you, sliding between your thighs and push down my shorts. My cock springs free, hard and aching. I wrap my palm around the length of it, pulling the skin upward until the head is covered, then slowly back. My other hand bites into your inner thigh, gripping the muscle and skin there, my nails digging in as repayment for the marks most certainly lingering on my neck. I watch you fingers move along your body and part the slick folds of your flesh, watch the thumb that grazes over your hardened clit, and my grip tightens reflexively on my length. The tip oozes, greedily, selfishly indulging in its own pleasure.<br /> <br /> The moment we both tire of games becomes quite obvious and it triggers in both of us almost at the same time. You shift ever so subtly, I mirror your movement with my own. My thumb strokes your open slit, moving above you, the head of my cock sliding effortlessly in the moisture between your thighs. When the head pushes against your slick cunt, you moan and the pressure that slides around my cock forces me to grit my teeth.<br /> <br /> I am staring down at the place where we are joined, outside, here in the open. I feel cool air finally brush over us and push in, sinking my cock inside you fully. My eyes close, my breath catches with yours. &lsquo;Fuck.&rsquo; I say, a forced word, sound, that comes without warning from my mouth.<br /> <br /> Your nails rake my shoulders. &lsquo;Yes, fuuucckk.&rsquo; The sound is drawn out as I pull from you and slam back in, our hips meeting with a wet sound. It repeats and draws a noise from you. My fingers dig into your thighs, my nails curling in as I pull you closer to me to meet each slick, wet movement of my cock. Our bodies move against one another, our shapes barely registering in the dark that surrounds us now that the sun has set.<br /> <br /> The shadows are obvious in the story they tell however, the lewd movements of my hips grinding into yours, unmistaken. I feel your legs wrap around me and tighten, keeping the movements short, fast; the sounds coming one on top of the other. My cock tightens, I can feel it swollen, aching in the swollen wet folds of your cunt. I feel your hand reach between us, your fingers brushing against my cock as it slides quickly in and out of your pussy.<br /> <br /> &lsquo;Come in me.&rsquo;<br /> <br /> I jerk at the words, driving even harder inside you, the grass digging into my knees, your back. Your hips move to meet mine and I feel you still for a long moment before your body jerks and your mouth opens up with a soft cry. Your body flutters around me and I push into you until I, too, pause.<br /> <br /> A long moment later I hiss, and there is a jerk of my hips as I flood into you, filling your cunt with my seed. I blink, sweat blurring my vision. I shake my head, slowly pulling my cock from you before falling back into the grass. Silence stretches.<br /> <br /> Rain begins to fall seconds later. Blog yes
Silence has fallen between us, that comfortable silence that comes with time and knowing the person next to you better than you probably should. I watch a wasp hovering over some heavy brush in the distance, the ducks and goose that swim in oddly straight lines along the creek. A fallen tree serves as a bridge over the dark water which houses fish and turtles, many of whom have found their evening meal tossed to them from children or other equally silent adults.

I watch you brush away the clinging shards of cut grass from your thigh. I see the angry mark that shows just under the line of your shorts, a reminder of other, less gentle, less introspective days. The wind blows and I will it to cool my skin, but my shirt refuses to budge, keeping the heat in. A shadow creeps across the land, slowly moving over the grass until we are slowly swallowed by the welcome tint of blue and gray amid the orange and red. The sensation of heat abates and I lay back against the lawn, staring up into the blue sky that fades into the palest shade of white.

My arms fold behind my head and I swat away the high pitched squeal of a mosquito before I close my eyes. A moment later, you are curled against me; in spite of the heat, my sweat and yours, you are curled against me. My breathing evens out slowly. I am lost in the constellation of lights behind my eyelids, drifting endlessly.

When they open again, the sun has crept just below the horizon, fading into a dark sky, shouting its tributes in riotous colors of purple and blue. Clouds begin to roll in lazily, stretching along and taming the sky’s colors. My movement stirs you and I feel the stroke of your cheek through the fabric of my shirt. I roll onto my side and look down at you, all rumpled and sleepy-eyed. My fingers curl into your side and you make some noise of protest that I could never duplicate.

‘Shh…’ It is a simple sound, but you obey its command. Your lips remain parted as if suspended from some unspoken thought. My fingers shift the simple material of your shirt slightly until the barest of touches brushes against your stomach. I can feel your reaction, see it reflect in your expressive face. My fingers move higher until they brush along the edge of your bra, skimming the material, the flesh that swells eagerly above it.

Your breathing has changed. It comes quicker and in uneven gusts as I twist your mind and body around the world I create between us. It is only a moment later when your nipple comes to rest between my thumb and index finger. It is a casual roll, ever so light, that hardens that peak so beautifully, but the harder tug makes a moan erupt and your back arch off of the grass. A resulting rumble tumbles out of my throat and I lean down finally to brush my mouth to yours.

The feel of your teeth surprises me when our mouths touch and I draw back momentarily until your lips meet mine again in what I can only describe as hungry. I feel your hands slide up until they brace against my neck and your nails, your blood red talons, dig into my skin. I am tasting the swell of your bottom lip in my mouth, my tongue running over it in a lazy fashion despite the crescent shapes you imprint into my skin. My finger twists hard suddenly and you break away, dragging your lip away, across the sharp edge of my teeth.

‘Shh…’ I repeat again, glancing up ensuring that our alcove has not been penetrated by unwelcome company. The sun creeps into the horizon and the sky grows darker. My fingers slide down and tug upon the tie that holds the navy shorts to your hips. It releases easily, sliding out of its pretty bow with grace. I feel your nails tighten further and stare down into your face with a silent warning; they ease only a fraction.

I know without looking that your panties are white, an insubstantial lace that looks so delicate and erotic against your skin. You are a creature of habit and colors and fashion. The barrier melts away under the tips of my fingers, your flesh yielding sweetly as my fingers dip between your thighs and into the waiting moisture. The tension in your fingers tighten again and I feel a sharp sting followed by a trail of moisture that trickles down my neck.

‘Bloodthirsty.’ My lips brush against your ear, the sound of your breathing and mine seeming as if inside a hollow tunnel. I feel your body arch up against me and I slid my fingers lower, pushing a single finger inside the hot tunnel of your sex. My teeth graze along your neck, the curve of your shoulder. ‘So wet, open up for me.’ It is a simple statement, but the words echo and reverberate in your skin and through the stiff line of my cock that presses against your side.

I exhale, my thumb tracing over your clit, grazing. Soft whimpered noises emit from your mouth and wet sounds play delicately along the soft skin of your thighs. My fingers pull from you and there is a flurry of movement as I push your shorts and panties down along your legs. I can see you looking, searching the growing darkness for eyes. There is always the chance of getting caught fucking on the lawn of some city park. The idea excites us both and makes the movements jerky.

I move above you, sliding between your thighs and push down my shorts. My cock springs free, hard and aching. I wrap my palm around the length of it, pulling the skin upward until the head is covered, then slowly back. My other hand bites into your inner thigh, gripping the muscle and skin there, my nails digging in as repayment for the marks most certainly lingering on my neck. I watch you fingers move along your body and part the slick folds of your flesh, watch the thumb that grazes over your hardened clit, and my grip tightens reflexively on my length. The tip oozes, greedily, selfishly indulging in its own pleasure.

The moment we both tire of games becomes quite obvious and it triggers in both of us almost at the same time. You shift ever so subtly, I mirror your movement with my own. My thumb strokes your open slit, moving above you, the head of my cock sliding effortlessly in the moisture between your thighs. When the head pushes against your slick cunt, you moan and the pressure that slides around my cock forces me to grit my teeth.

I am staring down at the place where we are joined, outside, here in the open. I feel cool air finally brush over us and push in, sinking my cock inside you fully. My eyes close, my breath catches with yours. ‘Fuck.’ I say, a forced word, sound, that comes without warning from my mouth.

Your nails rake my shoulders. ‘Yes, fuuucckk.’ The sound is drawn out as I pull from you and slam back in, our hips meeting with a wet sound. It repeats and draws a noise from you. My fingers dig into your thighs, my nails curling in as I pull you closer to me to meet each slick, wet movement of my cock. Our bodies move against one another, our shapes barely registering in the dark that surrounds us now that the sun has set.

The shadows are obvious in the story they tell however, the lewd movements of my hips grinding into yours, unmistaken. I feel your legs wrap around me and tighten, keeping the movements short, fast; the sounds coming one on top of the other. My cock tightens, I can feel it swollen, aching in the swollen wet folds of your cunt. I feel your hand reach between us, your fingers brushing against my cock as it slides quickly in and out of your pussy.

‘Come in me.’

I jerk at the words, driving even harder inside you, the grass digging into my knees, your back. Your hips move to meet mine and I feel you still for a long moment before your body jerks and your mouth opens up with a soft cry. Your body flutters around me and I push into you until I, too, pause.

A long moment later I hiss, and there is a jerk of my hips as I flood into you, filling your cunt with my seed. I blink, sweat blurring my vision. I shake my head, slowly pulling my cock from you before falling back into the grass. Silence stretches.

Rain begins to fall seconds later.]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76576/#comments http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/76576 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76576 Sat, 30 Aug 2008 18:42:51 GMT Dance with me http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76363 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div style="text-align: center">Dance with me<br /> <br /> Take my hand. I'm offering it to you fingers uncurled, palm inviting you to feel the warmth of my skin.<br /> <br /> Take the offer it is an urgent one. I need exactly what you have to offer me.<br /> <br /> Your fingers. Your delicate fingers, so cool as they lace with mine, wrapped in my strength as I pull you closer, stepping to the side. It is a dance. Read the language I'm offering you, silence that screams louder thanh any words.<br /> <br /> I can feel the heat that starts to pour off of your skin like water. Your fingers burn with mine, still locked together. My palms blister where they clasp your hips, squeezing so that the blood, yours or mine, seeps through my fingers.<br /> &nbsp;<br /> Another step.<br /> <br /> Closer. I can smell the scent of you, it melts into my skin finer than any vapour, any mist.<br /> <br /> Your lips fascinate me, parted just that fraction I need. I inhale. Spin, twirl you away and back to me.<br /> <br /> Another step.<br /> <br /> Feel my palm inch up your skin and press into the valley between your breasts, fingers splayed. Another Step. I feel your rapid heartbeat, drumming like a bird, while your body moves in step with mine.<br /> <br /> Inhale again.<br /> <br /> Those fingers slide to your neck and I pull you closer, your breathing becomes faster, your eyes swimming in the tears starting to well there. the room moves in a dizzying motion as we both shift, eyes focused only on one another.<br /> <br /> Your mouth lifts, your eyes close and shed the moisture there in silver streams down your cheeks. Our mouths touch, and you exhale, only to turn to ash in my arms.<br /> <br /> I exhale that gift I took from you and wait. My eyes closed. Standing in the dark, listening to that devils music in my head. Compelling me to move.<br /> <br /> Another step.<br /> <br /> When I open my eyes again you are reborn.<br /> <br /> Do you dance with me again?</div> Blog yes Dance with me

Take my hand. I'm offering it to you fingers uncurled, palm inviting you to feel the warmth of my skin.

Take the offer it is an urgent one. I need exactly what you have to offer me.

Your fingers. Your delicate fingers, so cool as they lace with mine, wrapped in my strength as I pull you closer, stepping to the side. It is a dance. Read the language I'm offering you, silence that screams louder thanh any words.

I can feel the heat that starts to pour off of your skin like water. Your fingers burn with mine, still locked together. My palms blister where they clasp your hips, squeezing so that the blood, yours or mine, seeps through my fingers.
 
Another step.

Closer. I can smell the scent of you, it melts into my skin finer than any vapour, any mist.

Your lips fascinate me, parted just that fraction I need. I inhale. Spin, twirl you away and back to me.

Another step.

Feel my palm inch up your skin and press into the valley between your breasts, fingers splayed. Another Step. I feel your rapid heartbeat, drumming like a bird, while your body moves in step with mine.

Inhale again.

Those fingers slide to your neck and I pull you closer, your breathing becomes faster, your eyes swimming in the tears starting to well there. the room moves in a dizzying motion as we both shift, eyes focused only on one another.

Your mouth lifts, your eyes close and shed the moisture there in silver streams down your cheeks. Our mouths touch, and you exhale, only to turn to ash in my arms.

I exhale that gift I took from you and wait. My eyes closed. Standing in the dark, listening to that devils music in my head. Compelling me to move.

Another step.

When I open my eyes again you are reborn.

Do you dance with me again?]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76363/#comments 1 http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/76363 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76363 Wed, 27 Aug 2008 22:22:52 GMT Consumed http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76200 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div align="center">Skin.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">There is something about skin that intoxicates me. Tan or pale, each color has its own depth, its own appeal to the eyes, the right light to make it just - utterly perfect.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">The softness of it is most important. The contrast that exists under my fingertips, the differences between my courseness, your softness. I imagine the playground I can make out of your belly, like swimming in an ocean of cream, thick and warm. Wanting to rub my face over it, inhale it, sink into it for hours, days&hellip;.weeks. Swallow it, taste it across my tongue, drink it down in a haze of rapture compelled only by the desire to know more of it, to know it better.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">Dig my fingers into your flesh, into the tissue, not to mark, but in a seduction, a dance that only ends when you cry for reasons other than pain. It is a kiss, my kiss, the one time where I make myself equally available to you, where I don&rsquo;t stand in dominance over you, but with you, controlled, perhaps, by something greater than us both.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">I crave it.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">Let me swim in it.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">A field of textures, patterns and scents.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">I love her skin.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">&nbsp;<em><span style="font-style: normal">Dios Mio.</span></em>It is perfection.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">Can it be called caramel? It isn&rsquo;t sweet&hellip;her taste is savory, spiced. Cafe Latte, perhaps. <em><span style="font-style: normal">Yes</span></em><i>,</i> better suiting, because it is silky, smooth and bold.<br /> <br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">&nbsp;<em><span style="font-style: normal">Golden</span></em><i>.<br /> </i></div> <div align="center">&nbsp;The color should be outlawed - she glows almost, her skin so sweetly sublime - so utterly perfect for her.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">My palms itch to feel the smooth curve of her hips, <em><span style="font-style: normal">her belly </span></em>- my thumb seek to dig into the muscles below - all covered by that perfect flesh.<br /> <br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">The smell, the careful attention paid to every corner of her body is our foreplay.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">&nbsp;My fingers graze those secret spots of whitened flesh where faint scars remain from forgotten sessions of <em><span style="font-style: normal">love</span></em> and <em><span style="font-style: normal">pain</span></em>. <br /> <br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">My lips feel the tickle of the hair that lightly brushes against them as I kiss my way across her belly.</div> <div align="center"><br /> It is <em><span style="font-style: normal">never enough</span></em>, the time we have, to trace each line of her fingerprint with my tongue.<br /> <br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center">It could be said that I consumed her.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div align="center"><em><span style="font-style: normal">But she consumes me!</span></em></div> Blog yes Skin.
 
There is something about skin that intoxicates me. Tan or pale, each color has its own depth, its own appeal to the eyes, the right light to make it just - utterly perfect.
 
The softness of it is most important. The contrast that exists under my fingertips, the differences between my courseness, your softness. I imagine the playground I can make out of your belly, like swimming in an ocean of cream, thick and warm. Wanting to rub my face over it, inhale it, sink into it for hours, days….weeks. Swallow it, taste it across my tongue, drink it down in a haze of rapture compelled only by the desire to know more of it, to know it better.
 
Dig my fingers into your flesh, into the tissue, not to mark, but in a seduction, a dance that only ends when you cry for reasons other than pain. It is a kiss, my kiss, the one time where I make myself equally available to you, where I don’t stand in dominance over you, but with you, controlled, perhaps, by something greater than us both.
 
I crave it.
 
Let me swim in it.
 
A field of textures, patterns and scents.
 
I love her skin.
 
 Dios Mio.It is perfection.
 
Can it be called caramel? It isn’t sweet…her taste is savory, spiced. Cafe Latte, perhaps. Yes, better suiting, because it is silky, smooth and bold.

 
 Golden.
 The color should be outlawed - she glows almost, her skin so sweetly sublime - so utterly perfect for her.
 
My palms itch to feel the smooth curve of her hips, her belly - my thumb seek to dig into the muscles below - all covered by that perfect flesh.

 
The smell, the careful attention paid to every corner of her body is our foreplay.
 
 My fingers graze those secret spots of whitened flesh where faint scars remain from forgotten sessions of love and pain.

 
My lips feel the tickle of the hair that lightly brushes against them as I kiss my way across her belly.

It is never enough, the time we have, to trace each line of her fingerprint with my tongue.

 
It could be said that I consumed her.
 
But she consumes me!
]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76200/#comments 3 http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/76200 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76200 Mon, 25 Aug 2008 23:34:10 GMT Mi Esclava 2 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76163 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div class="storycontent"> <p>&lsquo;Don&rsquo;t.&rsquo;</p> <p>It was a simple command, given without breaking the stride of my typing, my fingers stroking the keys in a practiced and overly confident manner. I was working, sitting at the bar that wrapped around half of the kitchen, my mind filled with figures, calls that needed to be made, deadlines that needed to be met.</p> <p>There was silence and the pace of my fingers increased as distraction faded away, my face lit by the glow of the monitor, the light of inspiration that my muse had inspired within me. My business muse. It was dry, but necessary work; the kind of work that keeps people up nights dreaming of solutions that I - I - now had before me, waiting to be spilled out onto the keys of my laptop, the words that would force that stupid blinking cursor to stop mocking me and strive to keep pace with my thoughts as text raced across the screen.</p> <p>Did you follow that? I was inspired.</p> <p>I felt my lips curl with a smirk as every problem was addressed in the paragraphs that followed. Budget, done. One massive problem marked out with a crisp line of ink, or in this case, crisp lines of Times New Roman text. Genius. My fait accompli for the day, the week, the month.</p> <p>The closing paragraph loomed before me and I closed my eyes as I started the sentence, my fingers slowly starting to stroke the keys. It was then that I felt her teeth, the hot fall of her breath on my ankle. My entire body stiffened in surprise, the words evaporating from my head like ash in the wind. I glanced down at her, shock, no doubt, coloring the lines of my face.</p> <p>Anger following close behind. She was looking up at me with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes, that look she gets when she feels almost itching to rile me. I felt the weight of her body collapse on my foot, her teeth still lightly resting against my skin, her nails scratching the back of my leg. I moved and they dug in.</p> <p>&lsquo;What do you think you are doing?&rsquo;</p> <p>She just stared at me. I moved again and she bit harder, her nails struggling to keep hold of my foot. I reached down, picked her up and plopped her on my shoulder. Her purr filled my ear.</p> <p>I finished my work with one hand, the other casually stroking her back. <br /> <br /> My baby is back.</p> <p>I own a cat and sometimes she owns me.</p> </div> Blog yes

‘Don’t.’

It was a simple command, given without breaking the stride of my typing, my fingers stroking the keys in a practiced and overly confident manner. I was working, sitting at the bar that wrapped around half of the kitchen, my mind filled with figures, calls that needed to be made, deadlines that needed to be met.

There was silence and the pace of my fingers increased as distraction faded away, my face lit by the glow of the monitor, the light of inspiration that my muse had inspired within me. My business muse. It was dry, but necessary work; the kind of work that keeps people up nights dreaming of solutions that I - I - now had before me, waiting to be spilled out onto the keys of my laptop, the words that would force that stupid blinking cursor to stop mocking me and strive to keep pace with my thoughts as text raced across the screen.

Did you follow that? I was inspired.

I felt my lips curl with a smirk as every problem was addressed in the paragraphs that followed. Budget, done. One massive problem marked out with a crisp line of ink, or in this case, crisp lines of Times New Roman text. Genius. My fait accompli for the day, the week, the month.

The closing paragraph loomed before me and I closed my eyes as I started the sentence, my fingers slowly starting to stroke the keys. It was then that I felt her teeth, the hot fall of her breath on my ankle. My entire body stiffened in surprise, the words evaporating from my head like ash in the wind. I glanced down at her, shock, no doubt, coloring the lines of my face.

Anger following close behind. She was looking up at me with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes, that look she gets when she feels almost itching to rile me. I felt the weight of her body collapse on my foot, her teeth still lightly resting against my skin, her nails scratching the back of my leg. I moved and they dug in.

‘What do you think you are doing?’

She just stared at me. I moved again and she bit harder, her nails struggling to keep hold of my foot. I reached down, picked her up and plopped her on my shoulder. Her purr filled my ear.

I finished my work with one hand, the other casually stroking her back.

My baby is back.

I own a cat and sometimes she owns me.

]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76163/#comments http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/76163 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76163 Mon, 25 Aug 2008 10:32:20 GMT Mi esclava http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76118 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div>My cat is sick and has totally defied my orders to improve immediately. <br /> &nbsp;</div> <div>I applied her flea medication yesterday which caused her to immediately hate me for the rest of the day. <br /> <br /> She avoided me and slept in a basket located in my spare room. <br /> <br /> This morning, I notice she is sluggish and only mildly happy to see me. The little bugger is usually purr horny first thing in the morning. <br /> <br /> So I&rsquo;ve watched her all day. <br /> <br /> She eats, sleeps. Stupid me. Typical cat I suppose.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div>Still I will keep an eye on her.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div>The little bitch is the current love of my life. <br /> <br /> She never growls, never whines, and talks to me when I get home. <br /> <br /> <img height="430" width="430" alt="" src="http://i.deviantnation.com/m/142075.jpg" /></div> Blog yes My cat is sick and has totally defied my orders to improve immediately.
 
I applied her flea medication yesterday which caused her to immediately hate me for the rest of the day.

She avoided me and slept in a basket located in my spare room.

This morning, I notice she is sluggish and only mildly happy to see me. The little bugger is usually purr horny first thing in the morning.

So I’ve watched her all day.

She eats, sleeps. Stupid me. Typical cat I suppose.
 
Still I will keep an eye on her.
 
The little bitch is the current love of my life.

She never growls, never whines, and talks to me when I get home.

]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76118/#comments 2 http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/76118 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76118 Sun, 24 Aug 2008 21:21:27 GMT Temptation.... http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76114 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div class="storycontent"> <div class="storycontent"> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">It's raining today, again. <br /> <br /> The sky is black as it is just before sunrise, except now, the sky shields bright sun behind its cloak of dark instead of pale moon. Rain, thunder it makes no difference to me, my black clouds linger in defiance of sunny skies and warm days, the sky now simply mirrors the tenebrous thoughts in my mind.<br /> <br /> I have been tempted.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Storms rage, yet calm is the breeze that violates my skin with its unwelcome caress.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">No one holds command over me.<br /> No man.No prince. No god. <br /> <br /> What is a claim of age for ones who are immortal?<br /> <br /> What is a claim of power for ones who defy death?<br /> <br /> Call your damnable hunt.<br /> We shall see who I drag screaming to hell with me.</span></span></p> </div> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I&rsquo;m in that mood where I say things that will hurt.&nbsp;<br /> <br /> I&rsquo;m in the mood that doesn&rsquo;t care just how badly they hurt either.&nbsp; I feel the contradiction of my stillness and the tumultuousness that rages just under its surface.&nbsp; I look tired to anyone that might come across me, who don&rsquo;t know me well enough to identify the mood.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s the stillness, you see, the quiet stare off into the abyss.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">If it breaks upon someone, it is usually with cold, calculated hatred.&nbsp; And it does feel like hate when it hits, because I just don&rsquo;t want to control it until I&rsquo;ve actually made&nbsp;you cry, or worse, hurt&nbsp;you so badly that agony stills the rise of tears in&nbsp;your breast.&nbsp; <br /> <br /> I&rsquo;m dangerous like this, and it's this mood that strengthens my desire for a woman that doesn&rsquo;t make my words her new internal voice.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Strength that allows you to lift your head and look at me when you know I&rsquo;m disappointed in you.&nbsp; <br /> <br /> The strength that allows you to stand when you know I&rsquo;ll only put you on your knees again.&nbsp;<br /> <br /> The strength that looks back at me through the streaks of salty tears, and the blood at the corner of your mouth.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Strength.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">My own keeps me silent when everything inside me is raging.</span></span></p> </div> Blog yes

It's raining today, again.

The sky is black as it is just before sunrise, except now, the sky shields bright sun behind its cloak of dark instead of pale moon. Rain, thunder it makes no difference to me, my black clouds linger in defiance of sunny skies and warm days, the sky now simply mirrors the tenebrous thoughts in my mind.

I have been tempted.

Storms rage, yet calm is the breeze that violates my skin with its unwelcome caress.

No one holds command over me.
No man.No prince. No god.

What is a claim of age for ones who are immortal?

What is a claim of power for ones who defy death?

Call your damnable hunt.
We shall see who I drag screaming to hell with me.

I’m in that mood where I say things that will hurt. 

I’m in the mood that doesn’t care just how badly they hurt either.  I feel the contradiction of my stillness and the tumultuousness that rages just under its surface.  I look tired to anyone that might come across me, who don’t know me well enough to identify the mood.  It’s the stillness, you see, the quiet stare off into the abyss.

If it breaks upon someone, it is usually with cold, calculated hatred.  And it does feel like hate when it hits, because I just don’t want to control it until I’ve actually made you cry, or worse, hurt you so badly that agony stills the rise of tears in your breast. 

I’m dangerous like this, and it's this mood that strengthens my desire for a woman that doesn’t make my words her new internal voice.

Strength that allows you to lift your head and look at me when you know I’m disappointed in you. 

The strength that allows you to stand when you know I’ll only put you on your knees again. 

The strength that looks back at me through the streaks of salty tears, and the blood at the corner of your mouth.

Strength.

My own keeps me silent when everything inside me is raging.

]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76114/#comments http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/76114 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/76114 Sun, 24 Aug 2008 19:49:52 GMT Debauchery http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75779 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want debauchery.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want raunchy, dirty, naked-ass sex.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want nothing between us but our slick skin and an intent to become animals.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want her on all fours, breasts moving as I fuck her from behind, her ass hitting my thighs. I&rsquo;ll start with my hands on her hips, slamming her back against me until she&rsquo;s panting. And then I&rsquo;ll make her do it herself, impaling herself against me, driving her ass back hard enough to rock the bed. I want to hear her grunting with need while I grip her hair to pull her body taut, all curving lines and hard tension. I want to watch her sliding on and off of me, I want to see myself disappearing inside of her again and again and again. I want to lay against her back, press one hand between her thighs, a tight embrace of wet folds and nimble fingers strumming her clit while I bite the back of her neck.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want her on top. I want her riding me hard, head thrown back, hands hanging at her sides. I want to watch her breasts bounce and hear her breathing come in ragged pants as she fucks herself, using me to drive herself to that edge. I want her to take it all, reaching to rip from the root of hunger every last moment of pleasure, until exhausted, she falls forward, hands over my heart, heaving for breath.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want to pin her to my bed, her legs over my shoulders while I press home deep enough to make her sore. I want to be over her, on her, inside her. I want her to feel taken, to feel raped and pillaged. I want to roll her on her side, never leaving her, legs draped over legs, until I am rubbing against spots inside of her she&rsquo;s surprised to find exist.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want to taste flesh.</span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">&nbsp;</span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">You know what gets me off?<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">The sound of a woman who is being thoroughly fucked.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">A woman who has been driven past the point of caring. A woman reduced to grunts and moans as a means of communication. Where every sound is elicited through a pounding need, a need so unrelenting it builds into a crescendo of cries that leaves her voice ragged. I get hard just thinking of it.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">But I&rsquo;ll take a woman in heat too, a woman whose seduction is deliberate, a woman who wants an audience as she strips herself bare. A woman with an intent to inspire who knows the husky promise of her words when the tangible weight of her desire makes her voice drowsy and hungry. The way her breath catches in surprise when she&rsquo;s touched <em><span style="font-style: normal">just</span></em> right. The pause, the pause that tells me she&rsquo;s reached the point of no return.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I love breathy moans and squeals of pleasure. I love shouts muffled by pillows and the sounds of fingers clawing at sheets. I love the sharp slapping echo of my hand meeting her ass and the low thump of a paddle on her thighs.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want to hear the wet sounds of her when I press inside.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I want to hear her ass hitting my thighs when I take her from behind.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Yes.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">That gets me off.</span></span></div> Blog yes I want debauchery.
I want raunchy, dirty, naked-ass sex.

I want nothing between us but our slick skin and an intent to become animals.

I want her on all fours, breasts moving as I fuck her from behind, her ass hitting my thighs. I’ll start with my hands on her hips, slamming her back against me until she’s panting. And then I’ll make her do it herself, impaling herself against me, driving her ass back hard enough to rock the bed. I want to hear her grunting with need while I grip her hair to pull her body taut, all curving lines and hard tension. I want to watch her sliding on and off of me, I want to see myself disappearing inside of her again and again and again. I want to lay against her back, press one hand between her thighs, a tight embrace of wet folds and nimble fingers strumming her clit while I bite the back of her neck.

I want her on top. I want her riding me hard, head thrown back, hands hanging at her sides. I want to watch her breasts bounce and hear her breathing come in ragged pants as she fucks herself, using me to drive herself to that edge. I want her to take it all, reaching to rip from the root of hunger every last moment of pleasure, until exhausted, she falls forward, hands over my heart, heaving for breath.

I want to pin her to my bed, her legs over my shoulders while I press home deep enough to make her sore. I want to be over her, on her, inside her. I want her to feel taken, to feel raped and pillaged. I want to roll her on her side, never leaving her, legs draped over legs, until I am rubbing against spots inside of her she’s surprised to find exist.

I want to taste flesh.
 
You know what gets me off?

The sound of a woman who is being thoroughly fucked.

A woman who has been driven past the point of caring. A woman reduced to grunts and moans as a means of communication. Where every sound is elicited through a pounding need, a need so unrelenting it builds into a crescendo of cries that leaves her voice ragged. I get hard just thinking of it.

But I’ll take a woman in heat too, a woman whose seduction is deliberate, a woman who wants an audience as she strips herself bare. A woman with an intent to inspire who knows the husky promise of her words when the tangible weight of her desire makes her voice drowsy and hungry. The way her breath catches in surprise when she’s touched just right. The pause, the pause that tells me she’s reached the point of no return.

I love breathy moans and squeals of pleasure. I love shouts muffled by pillows and the sounds of fingers clawing at sheets. I love the sharp slapping echo of my hand meeting her ass and the low thump of a paddle on her thighs.

I want to hear the wet sounds of her when I press inside.

I want to hear her ass hitting my thighs when I take her from behind.

Yes.

That gets me off.
]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75779/#comments http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/75779 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75779 Wed, 20 Aug 2008 00:08:01 GMT By Candlelight... http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75628 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><span style="">When I create images in my mind, it is as if I am bringing a razor blade to bear on the silhouette of my thoughts. The secrets we enact under the cover of darkness will have a weight that makes a sin of our lives. I will direct you, breathe my words across your skin until you shiver<i>.<br /> <br /> </i></span></span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><em><span style="font-style: normal">Part your thighs a bit further&hellip;yes, like that, show me&hellip;.yes. Now relax your hand&hellip;just like that, let my own grip warm yours, drawing it down&hellip;to&hellip;.just&hellip;.there, the edge of your heat.<br /> <br /> </span></em></span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><em><span style="font-style: normal">You know what I am doing?<br /> <br /> </span></em></span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><em><span style="font-style: normal">I am guiding your fingertips where my tongue will soon follow, and you, you're already wet. No&hellip;no, don't close your thighs, I want to watch your fingers under mine. That's it&hellip;my hand with yours, following your fingers inside of you&hellip;slow&hellip;slow&hellip;.now faster&hellip;.yes, part your fingers, draw them along the sides&hellip;.now down again, curl your fingers&hellip;Enough.<br /> <br /> </span></em></span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><em><span style="font-style: normal">Now it is my turn!<br /> <br /> </span></em></span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">By candlelight, I take you. I give you to the bed, a naked offering on flesh-colored sheets.</span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Your eyes are closed when I first touch you, a laying of hands that find the back of your thighs. Curled fingers draw your weight slowly back, pulling you onto your knees but leaving your head against the cool surface of the bed.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">You have become a supplicant.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Have you ever been explored?<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">There is vulnerability in the acceptance and intimacy in the act.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Small scars are kissed, lines are traced. There are no blemishes, just defining details on the carnal canvas being painted in the seduction of my senses.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Did you think I was here for you?<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">No, even this worship of your body is for myself. I will consume you, my hands will know you well enough to take you in my dreams. Your scent will adhere to my hunger and you will not escape me a second time.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I kiss the small of your back.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Your arching body is a sculpture in motion. Lower, each kiss, lower, until I can <em><span style="font-style: normal">feel</span></em>your heat against my face.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I part your lips&hellip;.will you be wicked today?<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Too far, too little, too much, too fast to realign when the signs all say go. With sensations sweet and surpassed only when your momentum slips, slides and glides free under your feet and casts you free.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Words like fingers wrap around your throat and pull you in until you can&rsquo;t breath through the heat and the desperate hunger. Reaching inward for safety, but driven there by need until you release all else and give in, give in completely to the desire for more - to not stop with just one touch, one kiss, or one bite. Addiction in moments, using the edge as a reminder of life, flushed skin a heated sign of how tight those fingers can be.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Breath. Breath. Breath.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Now stop!<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Pulse of the wrist, pulse of the neck, places of supplication and surrender. Pulsating, perseverance through pressure, protracted pleasure in the way you writhe.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">&nbsp;Writhe? Right now.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">&nbsp;Rhythm of reckonings made of rigid lines, wracking your body with risks too sudden and too soon to be questioned. You are here, now, in this desperation and too deeply in debt to a devil you only too willingly sold your soul to despair when all else is said you are simply a morsel too delectable to be passed over.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">You are naked.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">&nbsp;Bare. Stripped. Exposed, exploited, explained and x-rated. You are an empty canvas, melody without words, poetry in heat. You are lust, sinfully languid, lingering in limbs made of little but caresses carved from cradled hopes and lasting dreams.<br /> <br /> </span></span></div> <div align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">By candlelight, I take you....</span></span></div> Blog yes When I create images in my mind, it is as if I am bringing a razor blade to bear on the silhouette of my thoughts. The secrets we enact under the cover of darkness will have a weight that makes a sin of our lives. I will direct you, breathe my words across your skin until you shiver.
Part your thighs a bit further…yes, like that, show me….yes. Now relax your hand…just like that, let my own grip warm yours, drawing it down…to….just….there, the edge of your heat.

You know what I am doing?

I am guiding your fingertips where my tongue will soon follow, and you, you're already wet. No…no, don't close your thighs, I want to watch your fingers under mine. That's it…my hand with yours, following your fingers inside of you…slow…slow….now faster….yes, part your fingers, draw them along the sides….now down again, curl your fingers…Enough.

Now it is my turn!

By candlelight, I take you. I give you to the bed, a naked offering on flesh-colored sheets.
Your eyes are closed when I first touch you, a laying of hands that find the back of your thighs. Curled fingers draw your weight slowly back, pulling you onto your knees but leaving your head against the cool surface of the bed.

You have become a supplicant.

Have you ever been explored?

There is vulnerability in the acceptance and intimacy in the act.

Small scars are kissed, lines are traced. There are no blemishes, just defining details on the carnal canvas being painted in the seduction of my senses.

Did you think I was here for you?

No, even this worship of your body is for myself. I will consume you, my hands will know you well enough to take you in my dreams. Your scent will adhere to my hunger and you will not escape me a second time.

I kiss the small of your back.

Your arching body is a sculpture in motion. Lower, each kiss, lower, until I can feelyour heat against my face.

I part your lips….will you be wicked today?

Too far, too little, too much, too fast to realign when the signs all say go. With sensations sweet and surpassed only when your momentum slips, slides and glides free under your feet and casts you free.

Words like fingers wrap around your throat and pull you in until you can’t breath through the heat and the desperate hunger. Reaching inward for safety, but driven there by need until you release all else and give in, give in completely to the desire for more - to not stop with just one touch, one kiss, or one bite. Addiction in moments, using the edge as a reminder of life, flushed skin a heated sign of how tight those fingers can be.

Breath. Breath. Breath.

Now stop!

Pulse of the wrist, pulse of the neck, places of supplication and surrender. Pulsating, perseverance through pressure, protracted pleasure in the way you writhe.

 Writhe? Right now.

 Rhythm of reckonings made of rigid lines, wracking your body with risks too sudden and too soon to be questioned. You are here, now, in this desperation and too deeply in debt to a devil you only too willingly sold your soul to despair when all else is said you are simply a morsel too delectable to be passed over.

You are naked.

 Bare. Stripped. Exposed, exploited, explained and x-rated. You are an empty canvas, melody without words, poetry in heat. You are lust, sinfully languid, lingering in limbs made of little but caresses carved from cradled hopes and lasting dreams.

By candlelight, I take you....
]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75628/#comments http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/75628 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75628 Mon, 18 Aug 2008 01:13:32 GMT It rains.... http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75330 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">It rains, and I think of you.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Water, racing across the window, sculpts the shadows that fall across my desk; my fingers trace the changing landscape, following the dark lines, and I remember.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I remember the way the rain tasted on your skin. I remember how it trickled down your stomach, your breasts providing a cool alcove while I knelt, cheek pressed to your bare skin. I turned my head upwards to catch the drops of rain as they slid over your curves and onto my waiting lips.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I drank you in.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">In my study, I can hear the rain, tapping at the glass of the window, and when I open it, just a crack, I can hear the soft roar of the creek outside as it comes to life. Normally a quiet, lazy, memory of a stream, the torrential downpour has awoken it.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I listen, and I remember.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I remember hearing your heartbeat as I stood, my head resting on your chest, and it sounded like the roaring creek outside, as if we were rushing towards concupiscence and that if we didn't let go, the moment would crash through us, leaving us tangled, the space between us lost.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">But we didn't let go. We clung together, eager to drown in each other's heat, our desire turning to ferocious need, our legs and arms clasped tightly; you were no longer simply rain-wet, you were fever-drenched, and I felt you tremble and quake against me.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Eventually the rain passed. And, after I had kissed the rain from your lips, after your fingers had brushed my wet hair back away from my face so that you could see my eyes again, we let go, reluctantly, unsure, just a bit awkward, as we attempted to find our footing alone.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">It rains, and I remember.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">But you are not here, now, and I have only the memory of rain, the shadow of rain, to remind me.</span></span></p> <p style="text-align: center" align="center"><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">It rains...</span></span></p> Blog yes It rains, and I think of you.

Water, racing across the window, sculpts the shadows that fall across my desk; my fingers trace the changing landscape, following the dark lines, and I remember.

I remember the way the rain tasted on your skin. I remember how it trickled down your stomach, your breasts providing a cool alcove while I knelt, cheek pressed to your bare skin. I turned my head upwards to catch the drops of rain as they slid over your curves and onto my waiting lips.

I drank you in.

In my study, I can hear the rain, tapping at the glass of the window, and when I open it, just a crack, I can hear the soft roar of the creek outside as it comes to life. Normally a quiet, lazy, memory of a stream, the torrential downpour has awoken it.

I listen, and I remember.

I remember hearing your heartbeat as I stood, my head resting on your chest, and it sounded like the roaring creek outside, as if we were rushing towards concupiscence and that if we didn't let go, the moment would crash through us, leaving us tangled, the space between us lost.

But we didn't let go. We clung together, eager to drown in each other's heat, our desire turning to ferocious need, our legs and arms clasped tightly; you were no longer simply rain-wet, you were fever-drenched, and I felt you tremble and quake against me.

Eventually the rain passed. And, after I had kissed the rain from your lips, after your fingers had brushed my wet hair back away from my face so that you could see my eyes again, we let go, reluctantly, unsure, just a bit awkward, as we attempted to find our footing alone.

It rains, and I remember.

But you are not here, now, and I have only the memory of rain, the shadow of rain, to remind me.

It rains...

]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75330/#comments 2 http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/75330 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75330 Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:16:22 GMT What do you see? http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75116 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic">What do you see when you close your eyes, and you are alone in the dark?</span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic"><font face="Times New Roman"><o:p></o:p></font></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic">When all else flees, but the quiet and the hunger. When you press aside everything that does not have to do with your need. When you remove the binds that hold you to everyday life and embrace the promise of the extraordinary. When you discard rules and lines, erase boundaries and constraints. When you strip off the faces you wear for everyone else and expose the naked truth of self underneath. </span></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic">What do you see when you close your eyes?</span></span></span><span><font face="Times New Roman"><o:p></o:p></font></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic">When I close my eyes&hellip;.</span></span></span><font face="Times New Roman"><o:p></o:p></font></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic">I see you.</span></span></span><span><font size="3"><font face="Times New Roman"><o:p></o:p></font></font></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">On your knees. Your head lowered, sensing but not seeing me - knowing I am standing in front of you, close enough to slide my fingers through your hair and grip you. You feel a sharp tug as fingers tense and draw your head back until you&rsquo;re forced to look up into dark eyes.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">But only for a moment. Because my fingers tighten further and your eyes close to absorb the shock of my sharp unyielding grip even as I use my free hand to draw a delicate line down the length of your bared throat.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">I can see total release in the tension of your neck, your shoulders lowered just a bit in anticipation. I can feel the moment you let go and let yourself be caught in the building tide, swept hard against the walls I&rsquo;ve placed to guide you exactly where I want you to go. I can feel you give in as I lift you and place you in a chair, blindfolding and binding you in place.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">All is dark. Your hands are bound along the back side of the chair. And I have placed a female friend, a very beautiful, accomdating friend, on a chair facing away from you. She is close enough that you can feel her hair brush the back of your neck as she breathes.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">You don&rsquo;t struggle. Much.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Are those my hands pushing the skirt up your legs? Are those your thighs being parted?</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Is that your leg resting over my shoulder?</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Can you hear me do the same to her? The sharp intake of breath when my lips leave a trail of small wet kisses along the inside of her thigh until they reach the center? </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Does it make you shiver to know she&rsquo;s so close? To know what is being done to her? So close you can feel her shudder, feel the growing heat of her skin?</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size: small"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman">Is it hard to sit still, tied as you are, and hear the steady rustle of clothing, the surprised gasp?</span></span></p> Blog yes What do you see when you close your eyes, and you are alone in the dark?

When all else flees, but the quiet and the hunger. When you press aside everything that does not have to do with your need. When you remove the binds that hold you to everyday life and embrace the promise of the extraordinary. When you discard rules and lines, erase boundaries and constraints. When you strip off the faces you wear for everyone else and expose the naked truth of self underneath.

What do you see when you close your eyes?

When I close my eyes….

I see you.

On your knees. Your head lowered, sensing but not seeing me - knowing I am standing in front of you, close enough to slide my fingers through your hair and grip you. You feel a sharp tug as fingers tense and draw your head back until you’re forced to look up into dark eyes.

But only for a moment. Because my fingers tighten further and your eyes close to absorb the shock of my sharp unyielding grip even as I use my free hand to draw a delicate line down the length of your bared throat.

I can see total release in the tension of your neck, your shoulders lowered just a bit in anticipation. I can feel the moment you let go and let yourself be caught in the building tide, swept hard against the walls I’ve placed to guide you exactly where I want you to go. I can feel you give in as I lift you and place you in a chair, blindfolding and binding you in place.

All is dark. Your hands are bound along the back side of the chair. And I have placed a female friend, a very beautiful, accomdating friend, on a chair facing away from you. She is close enough that you can feel her hair brush the back of your neck as she breathes.

You don’t struggle. Much.

Are those my hands pushing the skirt up your legs? Are those your thighs being parted?

Is that your leg resting over my shoulder?

Can you hear me do the same to her? The sharp intake of breath when my lips leave a trail of small wet kisses along the inside of her thigh until they reach the center?

Does it make you shiver to know she’s so close? To know what is being done to her? So close you can feel her shudder, feel the growing heat of her skin?

Is it hard to sit still, tied as you are, and hear the steady rustle of clothing, the surprised gasp?

]]> Lanius Blog http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75116/#comments http://rss.deviantnation.com/comments/journal/75116 http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/75116 Mon, 11 Aug 2008 02:00:06 GMT Perversion http://deviantnation.com/members/Lanius/74797 [Deviant Nation] Lanius's Journal Lanius <div style="text-align: center"><em><span style="font-style: normal">I am perverse.<br /> <br /> </span></em></div> <div style="text-align: center"><em><span style="font-style: normal">I have no shame in saying this, I embrace it, I revel in it, I seek to understand it.<br /> <br /> </span></em></div> <div style="text-align: center"><em><span style="font-style: normal">One aspect of my perversity is my desire to touch the human animal hiding within those I play with. To distill for a few minutes that electric liquid exilir comprised of two parts raunch, two parts rigid instinctual need, and one part laughter.<br /> <br /> </span></em></div> <div style="text-align: center"><em><span style="font-style: normal">This is my nectar.<br /> <br /> </span></em></div> <div style="text-align: center">When I am in a particularly good mood, I find myself mentally undressing those women I have the potential to be attracted to.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I&rsquo;m not picturing perfect bodies....I can stare at a plastic Barbie doll if that was my desire. What I think about are the imperfections....the differences that make them unique, that shift them from being an abstraction and into being a potential reality.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I want to hear the story of their desire in the pattern of their breathing. I want to feel the rhythm of their lust in the undulation of their hips.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I live for that moment when they stop being a lady. <br /> &nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">When they cross over to me....racing, stumbling, wide-eyed or blindly seeking. When they give into impulse.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">When they become mine.<br /> &nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I always want more.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">More than that, I want to want more. I want to be insatiable. I want to be lean from hunger, let the weight of my desire hang heavy inside of me. I want it to drive me.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">Can we be too comfortable in our excellence?</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I don&rsquo;t want to be comfortable. I don&rsquo;t want to be at ease. Periods of rest become months of sleep, a drowsy lethargy towards life. Being good isn&rsquo;t enough. Because you will disappoint yourself. No matter how good you are, those moments when you are not wondering if you really are as good as you think, you are thinking that you should be doing better than you are.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">It always comes to this. Words and words to hone my knife, to give courage enough to cut away my pretensions. I take a savage glee in slicing deep, slipping the knife under my skin and peeling it back to see the marrow of who I am. I move fast, least I pause to consider the possibility that there is nothing under the surface, that I will cut myself into nothing.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">But that won&rsquo;t happen. There are already words to replace the ones I have cut away, already new, fresher ideas to settle over myself.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I want recognition, I want validation, but I don&rsquo;t want to ask for it least it sour the taste. I want it heaped upon me, the riches I so obviously deserve.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">That laughter in my eyes you always see? It is because I find myself endlessly amusing. Because it is hard for me to take myself seriously. Because I know the secret to life, and it is that everything is fucking ridiculous.</div> <div style="text-align: center">&nbsp;</div> <div style="text-align: center">I want to be unique. But only to myself. I want to privately know how special I am, because if I leave it unsaid, it can remain true even in the face of evidence to the contrary.&