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Conflict is letting him go with a smile on my face – the last image he will carry of me, even though inside I’m silently screaming, terrified, already feeling the loss of his presence in my daily life, hoping/praying I will see him again.
It is also, oddly enough, having him back in my arms, my home – no correction…our home; falling in love all over again in kisses and bodies intertwining, sharp words or cautious walking around the house dealing with anything else. A readjustment in sharing responsibilties, problems, parenting, finances, meals, nightmares, goals and dreams.
Conflict is his screaming or sweating with remembered nightmares, being helpless to stop them, to hold him when it is safe, when he returns back from hell and finds himself safe between the sheets – I am beside him however I can be.
Conflict is moving; new in friends, house, job, support; where is the fucking silverware drawer this time, my love, my life, sleep, calm?
Click to find other situations behind the word CONFLICT
“I found someone!”
“Careful. She has a wild eyed look to her.”
There were two men who “saved” her. At least, that’s how they viewed themselves. Neither was her prince whom she fell in love with…who was now married to another.
She tried to talk; she didn’t want them to draw attention to her. She had a mission, very different from the last time she had legs. She noticed that they were focused on her body, despite its grime and mud caked skin, she knew she was still attractive. Body language, the sea witch had told her.
She pretended to trip and put her arms around the first man who came to her aid. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, looked up and smiled at him.
She never understood how the sea witch had such an awful reputation. Just because she was a woman who wanted power? Because she had power? Because she was sexual on her terms?
Well, she could be sexual too. After all, being chaste and well mannered did her no good for the prince. No, the prince was tempted by another, to the point of marriage.
She leaned up and kissed the man, plunged her tongue into his mouth and tasted his last drink. He smelled like fish – like the sea and home; they were fishermen. She wanted them both, and not just for silence to her plight.
She was ready to live life on her terms, follow her own desires.
She just first had to kill the prince as the sea witch requested, that man who scorned her. She had given up her voice to meet him on his terms – with legs. She had aspired to better her circumstances with marriage; the only avenue for proper women.
Conforming to society be damned.
(*Laughing* This isn’t the first time I’ve done the wrong FFF. I went to add the link and realized I did the wrong week. And it won’t be the last)
He looked in the mirror, astounded.
“Do you not remember?” A female’s voice inquired, somewhere behind him.
He remembered blood soaking the previously dried and cracked ground, seeing his own hands shaking and covered in red.
He turned around and looked at her. She was beautiful, topless. Loose pant fabric covered her lower body. She proceeded cautiously towards him and the gigantic bed he had woken in, in the middle of the room. Why did she proceed cautiously?
“He doesn’t seem to,” another voice said, an almost identical version of the other woman. She too walked slowly, not removing her eyes off of him.
“Remember what?” he asked.
He remembered cold water washing away the blood, the cracks in the dirt suddenly swollen with the clear liquid to the point of a stream running suddenly. The water felt freezing against his sore knees and sweaty skin.
“Come,” a voice had commanded, and a warm hand gripped his still bloody one. The voice sounded similiar to the females now.
“Becoming king,” the answer brought him out of his reverie.
“Wh-how?” He turned back towards the mirror. His body felt like it had been shredded but he didn’t even any marks on him at all. He was naked and not even a scratch marred his skin.
He flashed to a roar like the sound of thunder, felt his shoulder tear and rip. He stumbled, a branch in his hand, and spun around. The lion leapt at him, impaling itself on the ragged branch, hurt and swiping at him. He scrambled away, stood and gripped the branch, clubbed the beast on the head, desperately tried to stay out of the path of the claws and felt them rake his leg anyhow. His leg almost gave out and he swung again, and again, the pain ripped through his shoulder, screamed of what he was sure was his death song, his agony and rage.
And when the blood spilled on the parched earth, when the beast went still, he collapsed.
One of the women left his sight from the mirror and he spun around. She was stirring the fire in the large fireplace, knelt on the pelt of a lion…the lion? She saw his look, smiled, and patted the fur. “You saved us, our land is alive again,” she said simply. “Come,” she crooked a finger and beckoned him to come to her, loosened the belt of her pants.
“Come,” she had said then, and the water continued to rise. He gripped her hand, stunned, shocked, unaware that he moved to stand. She led him to the grass that grew right in front of him, that thickened and became soft under his feet. She forced him to lay down on his back beside a trunk of a tree, the leaves sprouted slowly and before his very eyes unfurled and reached out. The hot and burning sun didn’t seem as fierce suddenly. She left him and returned with a pail of the water. She poured small amounts of the water on his shoulder – it cooled and healed. Suddenly there was the second woman who kneeled behind his head, rubbed his muscles, her hands brushed off the dirt and blood, the gore and death. She leaned over and gave him an odd kiss on the lips, then moved alongside him and stroked his skin.
Her breath was hot on his skin beneath his ear before she began sucking and licking. He clung to her, held onto her heat and invitation of body, the other woman still softly poured water, cooling him, made his pain subside. Or was it the excitement, desire, suddenly taking his mind off of his torment?
His body had other pressing needs; he felt himself grow and stiffen, and hands stroked and encouraged until he was hard with need. He felt a tongue swirl along the top, explore the underside of the head, stroke up and down the shaft, before the mouth popped the head inside and wet warmth slid up and down the length of him.
The other mouth moved from his neck and trailed down to his chest, her soft hair floated across his shoulder – no longer burning in anguish, brushed across his chest, feathery lightness following her kisses. Hands caressed his thighs.
Hands caressed his thighs and he looked down, so lost in the memory that he was oblivious he had walked to the pelt and the woman who summoned.
“Didn’t we…?” he trailed off. How to question such a delicate subject? Who knew if he dreamed, was still dreaming?
She smiled up at him, placed a chaste kiss above his knee, not taking her dark seductive eyes from his gaze. “Yes,” she placed another kiss, reached up for his hand and pulled him down. She cupped his cheeks and pulled him towards her for a kiss. Hands roamed his back – the other woman? “Yesterday the earth needed a sacrifice of blood and pleasure to thrive.”
“Today it is about our pleasure, and celebration of our new King,” the other voice spoke quietly behind him before kissing the back of his neck.
He felt himself stirring and hardening. He reached for soft breasts, squeezed their weight in his hands. Later, he would try to remember, to figure out how he ended up here in his traveling.
Right now, it was good to be the King.
A friend of Cammies wrote some delicious poetry that just had to be shared: I have no need for your chocolates Or your bright roses, of that familiar blushing red. I do not need hearts trimmed in frilly lace Or abundantly fancy dinner spreads.
My only need, is you, Right now as I'm sprawled across my bed. Dote on me with your sinfully tangled tongue.
And taste the sweetness that you left between my thighs. -Envious_Twilight
I find you irresistible,
even through the blur of my tears
A dark shadow of a man
whose hands bruise
whose lips heal
my thoughts, my passion, my body
You read me
my short breaths
my long moans
You provide pain and pleasure
fulfill a dream
Touch my skin, mark me yours
with your cock
Test my limits, find my walls
From the inside
People are often a bit taken aback to find out that my roommate used to be my boyfriend. We were completely NOT compatible as lovers, but we make excellent friends. I know he’s always still had feelings for me, but for the most part they were kept down, we both know those compatibility issues haven’t changed.
We were at an event awhile ago and my roommate was kind enough to take pictures of my boy being beaten for me. A few days later I went looking for the pictures from that night. I found a LOT of pictures, but they weren’t what I was expecting.
My roommate has a foot fetish. He also has a casting fetish, and general leg/foot injury fetish. To the point where you could walk around naked with nothing on but socks and he’d be disappointed. He doesn’t get turned on by any other part of the female anatomy.
As I open his gallery on his phone I’m greeted by a familiar pair of toes with a dainty anklette accentuating the shapely foot… It’s my sister’s. Going down though, I run into about 200 pictures. Of ME. Pictures I don’t know about. Pictures of me in the hospital even, when I woke up with a mystery foot injury after having been accidentally given the wrong medication and blacking out. Pictures of me on the couch, in my ace bandage, in my brace after another injury, or just simply my toes. All taken covertly, without my consent or even my knowledge.
I feel like someone has been taking naked pictures of me in the shower. The result is the same. These are, to him, erotic photographs. But A, you may say, you post nudes on the internet! It’s just your feet for crying out loud!
No. It’s just my consent being violated. It’s just my image used for titillation without my knowledge. It’s my privacy and my trust being violated. I’ve already let a violation go in the past, but this one now just raises more questions.
There are no lines drawn on parchment.
No friendly waypoint to guide us.
As we explore each other’s bodies, we navigate through the lustful haze.
Through calm seas and tempest, I cling to you, my anchor.
For I require no maps or instructions, as we journey forth to discover each other’s hidden coves.