Online Lovers

by Ann Patty

  I press my thumb into the bottom of your foot while grasping its side with my palm. The topside layers my fingers. Guiding your foot to the outside my cheek brushes along the inside of your arch. My breath is upon your ankles. My shoulders are now at your feet. My warm cheekbones now inch higher between the inside of your calves. My face burrows then parts your legs. My torso propels forward splitting your legs apart further. My hands slip behind your knee and drift up under your upper thighs. My lips graze and nibble from one inner thigh leg to the other, and back. My body positions itself in the valley of your legs. My arms beneath each thigh, wrap under your legs with my hands coming to rest, one cupping each buttock.

  My nose and lips walk upon your soft flesh. You smell of hot, untamed, damp dog fur. I bury my nose between the folds of your scrotum and nudge, several times, like searching for a nipple. You become semi aroused. Planting my open lips, I kiss, offer a tongue stroke then latch on and suckle. Opening wide to engulf more skin my tongue works what it can back inside my mouth. Suctioned on, my mouth feeds delicately.

  Your penis grows hard, long, strong. Natural animal moans escape from within. My mouth releases, nibbles randomly, until it begins its ascent. Riding on top of its tongues saliva, using the nose to follow scent, my open mouth travels over the ridges of your shaft, sometimes backtracking; yet always forging forth until my upper lip meets your engorged ledge. Gently I turn my head side to side running my upper lip up under your warm, firm ledge until it turns hot and thumps with need. I flip and scale my upper lip up and over.

  Your ridge rests in between the crevasse of my lips. I open my lips and run my tongue up under and around the rim of your hard, rigid swollen head. More primitive groans unearth. As I rim your head I look up. Your nostrils flare. Your chest in heaves deep. Your eyes glazed over. And your torso tremors. In one swift lunge my mouth engulfs your entire penis head. I taste a trickle of your sweet, sticky cum. This fuels my hunger. I latch on embedding you down deep into my cavernous recesses. My mouth plunges your shaft into my bottomless pit, then I pull back sucking hard as if to pull out life. Over and over I ram, entombing your penis shrouding it in a pocket of warm moisture that pulsates and grips, then I pull back retracting almost to your head.

  As my mouth ravishes your appendage, my tongue teases from inside. Simultaneously, independently it protrudes in, around, then retreats back. It curls around the helmet head top. It slithers under the hat rim and flicks its moist, ribbed, underside. Sucking, gulping down then back up, your juices well up in your shaft. An explosion is immanent. As semen rises up I retract my mouth back to the head of your penis. I pull back removing my warmth. You let out a breath, almost a cry of urgent need—a plea to continue. Our eyes lock. I nod a smile. You know that I’ve just said, “Not yet.”

  My breath is warm upon your staff. You ache to have me inside. I wait and teasingly brush my lip across your erection. I nudge with my nose and blow with my breath. And you throb. Just as you begin to decline, I climb atop and swallow you whole again. Slowly, methodically repeating my last dance. Down deep inside, back up to the top, then rest my lips upon your eye. Down deeper, pulling back slurping to extract juices. Plunging sliding my full open tongue down your shaft your semen now rises strong. At the bottom I feed, gripping tight, sucking strong, your head is at the furthermost point at the back of my throat. Your abdomen bucks and plunging forward.

  Your penis enlarges as semen fills the canal. Your fluids are unstoppable, surging forth, running to the topside, and erupts. Thick white syrup spurts into the receptive, waiting roof of my cavernous mouth. Warm, hot with life, your essence pours into me as I drink. Your explosions continue as I suck and swallow. Each suck, elicits another ejaculation. Your abundant nectars pour, fill, and ooze out of my full oral cavity. Seminal juices trickles down my chin and falls upon your belly. With a final heave you spray your final load into my ravenous mouth. You fill me. I cannot drink all of what you give.

  Much of you now runs down my throat to my breasts. I savor our union and allow you to fill me until you are complete. I take your last secretions and hold you in my mouth as I pull back, retract, and seal off my mouth as I exit. Your contented spent shaft slips out to rest. My lower face, throat, and chest are sticky, wet. Your belly is warm with damp. I pull my arms out from underneath you, bring myself up, and straddle your torso.

  I climb towards your face where we can meet eye to eye. As I look into your relaxed, grateful soul I press my lips to yours. I force your mouth open with the tip of my tongue and when it is wide and we are locked together, I release your sperm back to you and let you drink. You drink easily, eagerly, and then begin to consume me.

  ~ ♥ ~ )O( ~ ♥ ~

  SUBJECT: The Gift

  From: Ann

  To: John Carter

  Date: Tue, Nov 10, 2009 at 10:33 AM

  My Anam, my Aron....I contemplated whether to send this or not.

  The Gift

  Our souls met in the Garden of Eden.

  Our purpose was clear; our journey was of one.

  We were both fertile with children, our love produced another.

  The path long, wide, purposefully lay before us, we knew.

  Thirty years has brought much life, learning, love, laughter, tears, and torments.

  Yet we traveled as partners, shoulder to shoulder in step as one.

  The road has risen, fallen, bent in directions that made us grow.

  Through mountains we traversed, rivers we swam, valleys we rested.

  We traveled with intention and meaning, nurturing children entrusted to our charge.

  Guiding, always guiding these blessed souls then sent them off with their wings.

  Our mission complete, ourselves left vacant, our paths went unsure.

  At times our trek would find us wondering separate trails in search of our lost soul.

  Many spurs diverted off our main trail, sometimes one would wander away.

  Albeit at the days end we'd relent to recover our way back to the main path home.

  The journey has grown long, more arduous, far from our Garden of Eden.

  The path has turned sparse with foliage, the ground hard, cracked as a desert floor.

  I’ve reached for your hand to find it gone; and talked to a misplaced heart.

  You’ve chosen to divert to a well-worn path others have gone before.

  I was unable to follow believing our original path still held truth.

  Yet, at each day’s end you still returned home, resigned, carrying a burden.

  You want freedom, and seek to find your soul. The path you have chosen is fenced off.

  We have neared the end of our journey where a stop sign sits. It splits two distinct paths.

  At the base of this stop sign sits a gift: a beautiful gold box wrapped with a single ribbon.

  I raise it to my chest, untie the ribbon, it falls to the earth.

  I lift the box top off to find a single black rose.

  It’s petals silken, smooth, and soft; a long stem laddered with razor sharp thorns.

  Carefully I pick up the rose. A thorn bites deep, sinking into my skin.

  The petals wither back, decay, and one by one float to the earth, and disintegrate.

  Pain surges through my finger, hand, arm, shoulder then grounds below to the earth.

  This torn hole turns into a gash; a long, bottomless, irreparable, chasm.

  Something like blood trickles –oozes out, winds around my wrist, down my shirt, running freely now, pouring down around my genitals, spiraling around my leg to the earth.

  It is rot, diseased, vial, and laced with disease from your sexual sins.

  I look over my shoulder. Your back is turned from me walking away on your path, alone.

  Your passage has an iron gate across it. No trespassing it says. It is chained and locked.

  I stand to ponder. My path is clear. No returning to once where we had traveled.

  I cannot show you the trail now, you’ve grown your
wings and you are gone.

  ~ ♥ ~ )O( ~ ♥ ~

  SUBJECT: A Revelation

  From: Cara Ann

  To: Aron Anam

  Date: Fri, Nov 20, 2009 at 11:21 AM

  A Lesson in 3D

  So another knowing, a simple one really that came to me this morning yet again in the shower. Yes, I do think of us in the shower, but most all mornings as I wash the dark of the night away and before the veil completely closes much information floods me that answers questions that my inquisitive nature has asked as some obscure point.

  Lately I had been thinking: Why are Americans so obsessed with nakedness, fornicating, and all the various angles and positions, toys, and such related to the sexual act when it is so completely a natural thing? Media while condoning sexuality at the same time portrays it somewhat as taboo, only for the 'lucky' good looking few, and with an air of secrecy.

  These ideas are polar opposites! Why has such an innate birth right become so ridiculously publicized with compulsion? And especially here in the U.S. when other countries place nakedness on television as an accepted way of life?

  The revelation: The reason for this sexual obsession, possession, and constant media primping to the idea of the ideal sexual god(dess) is because of the society that man has created. Our tribes have invented a cult(ure) of mass controls, rules, regulations, regiments, and society standards that restrains the free spirit of the human being.

  Our innate state is to roam free, in truth, in love, to express ourselves under and within the light of our Creator. We no longer can remain true to this freedom because the 'rules' tell us that we are not allowed! It is not just society that dictates these restraints...it starts there but trickles down to the humanness around us; our partners, our supervisors, our parents, everyone everywhere are restrained; and thus put their conditions, limitations on us.

  Due to these rules, the constraints imposed, our sexuality is still an accepted expression in our culture and tolerated, although currently misguided and misappropriated. Literal meaning: it is the act of sexual coupling and union of the male and female energies that is pure, yet confused. Having sex, lovemaking, fornicating, copulating, fucking, screwing, hooking-up, whatever you want to call it is in the group of the last freedoms society grants.

  This is due in part because it is out of the manipulation range (with some exceptions) by authority. Our free will in this realm is so strong and so attached to our innate native character that it has become a spontaneous act in order to break free. It is as if we scream, "Come on! Look at me I can do this sexual act. No one is going to tell me what to do and no one can stop me!"

  Because nature has been replaced by concrete; and gyms have taken up where mountain hikes have left off; and cultivating the land has given away to grocery stores, folks are disconnected. They want the wild in themselves back. So like their cousins who freely couple in nature, they become animal.

  However it is done is in an artificial manner. The masses hunt, search, scope out, pretty-up, put on phony scents, and drive fast cars all in the quest for the one. Sadly what is lacking is self love. We must earn the right to find the required sacrifice, the patience of waiting, and the celebration of life within. Instead hunts and gathers are akin to driving up to a fast food take out. Payment is nominal and punitive. Then hungers are temporarily satisfied with a quickie to go with another dead soul.

  Emptiness continues. Media exploits. Comedians mock. Films elude to the romance of a higher state. There is nothing inherently 'wrong' with all this humanness. It is just interesting to note that this ultimate, out of control expression has gone completely berserk. And it is because we can. There are no restraints. It is one of humans last free wills that have not been compromised.

  ~ ♥ ~ )O( ~ ♥ ~

  SUBJECT: Returning to OUR Land

  From: Cara Ann

  To: Aron Anam

  Date: Tue, Nov 24, 2009 at 2:33 PM

  Aron, you, your stories light me up! This last story you sent, Returning to my land now has a sequel: Returning to OUR Land. And how prophetic you are! The only way I usually swim is on my back . . . and my eyes are brown!

  Your Lover, CA~

  Anam we were here last night, again. I wanted to capture what happened next . . .

  Returning to OUR Land

  (CONTINUED)

  My body rests on its left side.

  My right knee bent slightly falls forward upon the earth.

  I-we are held in the contour of the belly at the base of the sand dune.

  My left cheek presses into moist warmth; into infinite tiny sand crystals that cup my face.

  Listen.

  The surf laps rhythmically behind us.

  It rocks our heart as we had swayed in each other moments ago.

  Propped on an elbow, you hover over me.

  Your lips nuzzle my right shoulder.

  Your fingertips run the length of my curvaceous body, rising and falling with each swell.

  Your right hand pauses to caress my soft, sun warmed thigh.

  Then slips back to knead and squeeze my roundness.

  Your essence slumps, coming to rest upon the bare ocean floor, then spoons me.

  Our silhouettes fuse into a single shadow in the late afternoon sun.

  Upon my back your heart beats; wholly in sequence with mine.

  Warm breaths grant life within; filling every barrenness full.

  Your embrace embodies our love, and all that we are:

  One Heart, One Breath, A Single Soul

  I beam contentment. One that has eluded me in this sojourn—until now.

  We bask in the light of our Creator’s love as she cradles us in her womb.

  Eternally held warm, in purity and with light.

  Our auras gently lift into the heavens, and beyond.

  We are now one.

  A solitary flare which graces earth’s atmosphere as a shooting star.

  Dissolving into time, where there is no space, no boundaries, only endless infinite being.

  ~ ♥ ~ )O( ~ ♥ ~

  SUBJECT: The Healer

  From: Cara Ann

  To: Aron Anam

  Date: Tue, Dec 1, 2009 at 8:55 AM

  Another one for you my love!

  ~CA

  The Healer

  She heals.

  Who?

  Mother Nature. She heals.

  She does not know any other way.

  Mother does what comes natural.

  As a nurturer She care takes.

  She cleans. She restores.

  She’s an artist in action. Always.

  She guards over her children; all that She has created. All that She is.

  Mother routinely and naturally bathes her skin, and replenishes her thirst.

  She ushers in burgeoning clouds to refill her earth from which to drink plentiful.

  She lets go. She cries rain to cleanse her body; so She can breathe again.

  Her liquid locks descend cascading down to soothe and soften where She walks.

  And with support from her moon maiden, they surf her shores spotless.

  Often She becomes electrified, throwing down rods of light to recharge her soils.

  Like most women, Mother likes to re-sculpt her form to perfection.

  She hiccups and regurgitates lava to enhance her contours.

  She carves away cliffs reclaiming her svelte figure.

  She replants her hairline replacing the ones that have gone before.

  Sometimes She burns away topical blemishes that irritate her.

  Occasionally, her belly twists and shifts to realign her body, softening bulky spots.

  By design Mother is an artist extraordinaire.

  Our lady's fingers peel back her skin to river her runoffs.

  Her artisan hands mold, sculpt and chisel new summits, a fresh apex.

  Her palms caress her ridges pushing, reshaping, shifting her masses to precision.

  She colorfully sports seasonal styles to rest
and renew, then flaunts her colors.

  She blankets her mounds in brilliant soft whites to allow her fragile areas to restore.

  Her leaf patterns lay as a quilt, covering well-worn paths so new ones are explored.

  Appealing to her offspring, Mother asks for their assistance to restore her health.

  Fur-bound contractors rebuild, damming her waterways to sprout and spawn new life.

  Four legged comrades nurse from her loins; in return they pass her seeds for rebirth.

  The demise of her Noble Majestics serve as feeders for their sapling offspring.

  Wings of flight take and leave their adornments then grace her heavens.

  Creatures cull and trim the overgrowth allowing Mother to see out from within again.

  Sometimes Mother is displeased and unleashes her fury.

  In attempt to wipe her plate clean, She twists in a fury to remove scourge.

  She tremors and shakes like a wet dog, ridding her back of annoyances.

  When her belly is upset She up chucks splattering—without discretion, all in her path.

  At times She opens up and swallows, taking back what’s owed, because She can.

  As a wall of wind with the Gods behind her, She sweeps violently brushing all away.

  Mother waits. She watches. She has a design; and the perfect plan.

  She is growing restless. Upset at the silliness that plays upon her skirts.

  She knows the lesson is long over due, but She waits.

  When her time is ripe She will rebirth.

  A newborn planet will reemerge from her loins.

  It will be clean, pure, natural: an original heaven.