Building

There are times when everything I do is about building. Constructing subtle sensations and enthralling impressions to assemble a teetering form. Delicately balanced and cemented with passionate pain, a tenuous structure and a solid, durable state.

Power induced architecture.

Strip the ground back to its natural naked self, unsown and bare. Remove the debris of clothing to reveal unending, fallow beauty. Verbally sketched plans; digging foundations with leather and earthy rope. Pile driven chains and tormented brick work, tainted fabricated steel.

Deviant design.

Building upward, slapping brick on brick, a dark towering structure, paddled, spanked and flogged into being. Beaten floors and thrashed walls; smacked ceilings covered with robust submission. Shadowy stairwells shackled to corridors flowing with crazed delight. Doors unlocked and gaping, rooms crammed with shivering welcome. Smarting, stinging windows permanently glazed and blissfully bolted. Wild garden, spread wide, open, exposed and brimming with burgeoning lust.

Proud immoral erection.

Every twisted conscious move overloaded with gratuitous pleasure but always building towards the inevitable critical end. Deep inside you rhythmically throbbing and verbally goading, edging closer to the apex. Marking the changes in your body, your breath and the eyes of your soul for the moment. That split second in time when keenly observed you hit the edge. And I can press and thrust and ride your orgasm, quicker and faster and harder and deeper. Crash against it, over it, under it, fighting fiercely through it; pitching us both headlong over the edge.

Demolition.