It's metaphorical...
Sep. 3rd, 2003 10:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
lamardeuse.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionSomething about DS gets me thinking in metaphor--images, themes, whatever. It's kind of annoying when you're trying to write smut, though. 332 words. NC-17, sorta. I guess.
Thaw
by lamardeuse
In the flickering light of the oil lamp, his skin's landscape changes constantly, a shifting canvas of shadowy valleys and pale, pure hills.
He sighs, savouring the exquisite softness of the furs against his bare stomach and legs. Pillows his head on his arms and waits for the beginning. Watches the dawning wonder spread over the other's face as he removes layer after layer, until he stands naked in the middle of the igloo, his arms outstretched and greedy and surprised at the warmth to be found under the snow.
"I didn't know it could be like this."
He hides his joy in the crook of his arm.
Neither did I.
The first touch warms; a hand tenderly cups the back of his skull, molding to its contours. He closes his eyes to better appreciate the rising temperatures.
The second touch burns; three--no, four--fingers trail down his spine, leaving eddies and currents of heat spiraling over his trapezius, chasing one another between his vertebrae.
The third touch ignites; a thin, almost delicate fingertip traces the crease lower down, then invades without warning. Fire spreads to his extremities.
The fourth, fifth, sixth touches follow one another, explosion after explosion of heat and light and sound. Hands gripping, spreading, and the searing brand of a tongue pressed there, there, flickering and darting, the way flames seek fresh fuel. Soft cries that begin in the underbrush and end in the roar of an inferno that consumes treetops a hundred feet high.
And then, when his surface is reduced to ash, the fire is still not finished with him, no, because it has found a new territory to conquer, to consume, and it presses forward with a relentless, ruthless energy, taking everything, even the oxygen he breathes--
Before dawn blazes over the horizon, he wakes. Pillows his head on his arms and waits for the morning. Savours the extraordinary sight of a fire at rest, quiet and beautiful under a blanket of soft furs.
End
Thaw
by lamardeuse
In the flickering light of the oil lamp, his skin's landscape changes constantly, a shifting canvas of shadowy valleys and pale, pure hills.
He sighs, savouring the exquisite softness of the furs against his bare stomach and legs. Pillows his head on his arms and waits for the beginning. Watches the dawning wonder spread over the other's face as he removes layer after layer, until he stands naked in the middle of the igloo, his arms outstretched and greedy and surprised at the warmth to be found under the snow.
"I didn't know it could be like this."
He hides his joy in the crook of his arm.
Neither did I.
The first touch warms; a hand tenderly cups the back of his skull, molding to its contours. He closes his eyes to better appreciate the rising temperatures.
The second touch burns; three--no, four--fingers trail down his spine, leaving eddies and currents of heat spiraling over his trapezius, chasing one another between his vertebrae.
The third touch ignites; a thin, almost delicate fingertip traces the crease lower down, then invades without warning. Fire spreads to his extremities.
The fourth, fifth, sixth touches follow one another, explosion after explosion of heat and light and sound. Hands gripping, spreading, and the searing brand of a tongue pressed there, there, flickering and darting, the way flames seek fresh fuel. Soft cries that begin in the underbrush and end in the roar of an inferno that consumes treetops a hundred feet high.
And then, when his surface is reduced to ash, the fire is still not finished with him, no, because it has found a new territory to conquer, to consume, and it presses forward with a relentless, ruthless energy, taking everything, even the oxygen he breathes--
Before dawn blazes over the horizon, he wakes. Pillows his head on his arms and waits for the morning. Savours the extraordinary sight of a fire at rest, quiet and beautiful under a blanket of soft furs.
End
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no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 01:28 am (UTC)*Annoying*?
I don't think so.
Beautiful. Exquisite. Lovely.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 01:35 am (UTC)The hardest (heh) thing about writing porn is that much of it is so damn repetetive. Things move up and down, in and out, and side to side. Great in real life, but when you're writing it, there's nly so many ways to describe it. You did it beautifully.
LOVE this: "Pillows his head on his arms and waits for the beginning."
The verb "to pillow" never occurred to me before. Thank you, vocabulary queen!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 03:54 am (UTC)So true! I'm glad you found this interesting.
Thank you, vocabulary queen!
Heh! I think I stole that tendency from Bradbury--he's always making words serve as different parts of speech.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 01:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 03:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 03:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 02:40 am (UTC)So appropriate!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 11:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 02:49 am (UTC)The second touch burns; three--no, four--fingers trail down his spine, leaving eddies and currents of heat spiraling over his trapezius, chasing one another between his vertebrae.
*whimper*
no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 11:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-04 04:52 am (UTC)This is incredible poetry- I could read it over and over again.
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Date: 2003-09-05 11:14 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2003-09-05 11:16 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2003-09-04 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-05 11:19 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2003-09-05 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 04:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 10:25 am (UTC)::off to read your latest::