The Anthony Hopkins' film, "Titus," always reminds me of fucking you. A stylized version of a bloody Shakespearian take on an ancient Roman myth; the blood and raw sexuality onscreen unfolds behind my bare back as I straddle you, my shins cradling your hips. You writhe under me as I rock and dance and tease you, placing your hands on my hips and forcing you into me as deep as you can go. The bedclothes are tangled in your legs as you pant and moan and look up at me with eyes that call me your goddess. I laugh and moan and squeeze you, grinning as you gasp. Your hands find my hips and begin to move me to your rhythm. I arch my back and toss my dark hair.
In my memory my hair is so long that I can feel it tickle my waist as my head hangs back in pleasure. You loved my hair. When I cut it, years later, I mourned it for you.
In my memory your hands find my waist and my breasts, small and high and unadorned. Again my memory seems a lie. I've had the diagonal nipple piercings so long they are a part of me, and I forget that you have never seen them.
In my memory you are caressing my neck and you pull me to you, lifting your shoulders up off the mattress to bite my neck. The feel of you holding me firmly in those arms, and your shoulders that still make my knees weak, even in memory, it is overwhelming. I am caught in your trap, your teeth not quite breaking the skin, but leaving an imprint in my pale skin. Your power is in your chest while mine lies between my thighs.
We never were free enough for the kind of rough play I crave, then and now. Rebuilding my memory I am held in your arms as I hold you inside me. I reach out above your head, stretching like a cat and your rough fingers run down my sides in a possessive motion. Bending my face to yours I take your lower lip in my teeth as we kiss fiercely. I distract you with my mouth as my fingers scrabble for the rope I had hidden under the pillows. In my memory we are naked and hot from the upstairs Jacuzzi.
Holding the rope in one hand I am momentarily distracted by your breath, coming now in ragged gasps that tell me you are close. Not yet, I tell you and lift myself off you entirely to leave you wet and hard in the cool summer's night. I hover over you and demand your hands above your head. Your blue eyes are begging me to allow you to come. I revel in this power as I wind the rope expertly around your wrists. The rope is soft and smooth from all our play time and the sensation of it slipping through my fingers relaxes me, even as I rub my clit over your tight abs.
Once you are tightly bound I stand over you, allowing you to look up into me. In turn I can drink in the sight of you: long, strong and intoxicating to me, as always. I pinch and bite you, the sharp stings interspersed with licking and sucking on your hardness. I straddle you again and let just the
tip of you enter me as I play with myself. I know that it turns you on to watch me get wet, wetter. I am slippery and soaking you as I bring myself to climax in front of you.
You are begging now, teasing still but with a serious undercurrent. I lower myself and kiss you, letting you suck my fingers and taste my wetness. I loosen the ropes as we kiss again, trying to devour each other with our passion burning. As soon as you can feel the bindings loosen, you flip me over in one fluid practiced movement and fuck me so hard I see stars as I come over and over again. I feel you thrust and bury yourself in me as you climax and my nails rake your back.
As we collapse into each other I peek over your shoulder to see the eight red grooves on your skin slowly fill with needle-thin rivers of blood. I climb on top of you and lick the wounds I've made as you smile lazily and point out the many neat bite marks on my neck.
In my true memory we fuck often and athletically -- but we were each others first lovers and we had not yet delved into the darker of our desires. It has been over six years since we were lovers, three years since I've seen you.
In my mind I can imagine the intense passion we had completely consuming us. I can remember your face and your reactions so clearly that it is hardly a stretch to imagine things they way they could have been. Rough and raw and with a passion of mythic magnitude. Instead I watch "Titus" alone and remember you.
Originally published June 2007 - "Body Art"