After Hours: Fire

The sheets with tiny pink rosebuds, incongruously innocent, are tangled beneath us.  Your lips travel slowly down from my earlobe down to my neck, marking your territory.  You stop at my collarbone; nipping it gently with your teeth before lifting your head to look at me.

Our shirts are lost somewhere on the floor, my bra discarded on the bed along with our socks.  Jeans and underwear create the only barrier that separates us from each other’s skin.  I want to know your skin as well as I know my own.  Every scar, every freckle, every tattoo, every perfect imperfection.

You hair is damp with sweat as you balance above me.  Your eyes are dark, intense, questioning.  I involuntary bite my lip.  I am already anticipating your fingers deftly unbuttoning, unzipping, removing the obstacles.  You take me out of my always busy head, reminding me that I am flesh, I am fire when I am with you.

My Indecent Spell

indecent spell

It is in

blackened chambers

I cast a spell

on you

only  you

my spell

one of darkness


delicious, decadent desire

that will lick up

every decent

thought you had

and bury them

in folds of my devil

where pulses

milk your fuel

and guttural screams

fill me

more than once




Saturday Night Special: Temple…-Eric Syrdal, Guest Barista

Her heart
is an artifact
of ancient days
of golden greek fire
in sunsets
and the fickle smile
of a summer goddess
brown waves woven
between a wreath of laurels
and the roaring adulation
of an adoring congregation
voices raised in prayer
runes drawn in the dust
as I untie her sandal straps
the majesty of
cream marble colonnades
statuary depicting her sweet form
flourishing in graceful concert
carved with my heretical hand
from inky quills
dipped in the darkest colors
of her eyes
written by the deepest echoes
of my blood

You can read more of Eric’s writing at My Sword and Shield….

Sins Scream in the Dark

Welcome to After Hours friends.  Beth Amanda back for a Friday night post.  This is obviously from my archives.  I had been writing less than a year on Twitter when this was posted there.  Sometimes it’s fun to look back, and most times, I’m asking myself “Did I write that?” When new doesn’t flow off the pen like it should, going back can be a great trip.  Enjoy the evening readers!

Yours To Devour

aching flesh

Waste none

of my aching flesh

lying bare

before you

adore each inch

with your eager eyes

feel me closer

with every fingertip

sliding over curves

journeying deep within

my softness

taste all my scents

my delicacies of femininity

with your lips and velvet tongue

devour my essence

like you

cannot ever

get enough