Fierce Balm

FIERCE BALM

You are combustable. A long month of terrible weather, busted plans, and work hassles have led to this. Tension raises temperature in the house. Your frustrations have begun to make your dreams itch at night -- all unacceptable.

I watch your aura spark and flame from the kitchen where I am preparing what will be the evening meal. You haven't the time to cook; I haven't the will to don clothes -- they might catch fire on a day like today. Anything could happen.

Entering the kitchen, you see me turn from the dishes, lean back, and rest my elbows on the counter behind me, eyebrows raised just enough to ask without asking, "what hurts?"

I know how to assess your mood in silence, just as a matter of course. And you know that I am a reliable sanctuary for a variety of moods. It is this dynamic between us that enables what happens next...

You are still moving toward the next room but then abruptly stop and turn to face me. Ozone hangs in the air.

Time stands still there in that kitchen. I see my tall, achingly desirable man with his arms at his sides, with energized limbs and electric stance.

You are an arc of lightning seeking ground -- mine. I can smell the smoke.

There, the flames flicker in your eyes. Now, absolute stillness in the room. Highly charged breathing in slow-motion, oxygen ready to fuel an explosion -- primed to blow it all up, this month of unwelcome lamentations.

I cannot move as I watch an internal battle unravel your composure. And then your eyes turn dark. I cannot move.

Dark eyes. Dark voice: "Lexie...." I nod. I know.

And then I wink at you.

Like a match on gasoline, you are fast upon me, large hand on back of small neck, gripping top of spine, palming skull, virtually carrying me by the back of the neck with one hand, the other clamped and gripped under one ass cheek.

Into the kitchen counter you bend me, forcing air out of my lungs in a huff. Your face is so close, but you won't kiss me; I want you to, desperately. But that's not what you want right now.

Instead, you flip me horizontal as if I weigh nothing, impulsively sprawling me on the table in such a way that I have no time to register that you have begun to devour the banquet between my legs before the ingredients and utensils have hit the floor.

I squirm -- all pleasure & helplessness -- until I hear your belt unbuckle. It's the same belt you wrapped around my waist and used as a handle weeks before. This time, however, the belt is aflame and you're putting it in my mouth -- something to bite on.

I reach to touch your face, to transmit agreeable signals. I snake one leg over your shoulder and the other toward the ground that I cannot reach. But you pull me to my feet by the wrists, spin me round, and collapse onto the table from the hips up before I can react.

A flaming belt falls and sets your cabinet on fire.

SNAP. Bent forward over the kitchen table, so fast. You are SO strong. I grip the edges with both hands -- perfect width for leverage -- and then hear your pants drop.

I struggle. My sternum is the fulcrum flat on the table, and I am realizing that my leverage with my hands is useless -- no range of motion is afforded me without discomfort. You are a runaway truck, and I am the ramp, bracing for the wreckage.

All of it on fire, of course.

I can hear my body begin to make sounds, to hum, to moan. My voice, a siren coming closer. My efforts to get into a position of some control is a severe provocation. You manhandle me, roughly, knowing that I have a little kink for my helplessness in the face of your masculinity.

I try to anticipate where your lightning will strike and when. My hands abandon the burning table in an attempt to use you for leverage instead.

You won't allow it.

Hair on the back of my neck rises just as surely as cinders from the bonfire we're building. Anticipation, anticipation. The curtains are ablaze.

You've placed your palm flat on my tattoo and grabbed a thigh with the other hand. So strong you are. Immovable.

I struggle. The resistance is intoxicating, turning me into a little animal. The more I struggle, the stronger you become. The top of my head begins to tingle as I morph into the center of your universe. All cunt, all ass, larger than life.

There is a bottle of oil emptying its contents down my crack, with the bottle clattering to the floor afterward. I can hear your involuntary vocalizations now, dousing me with more fuel.

You have made of me a tinderbox, an imminent inferno, a tornado seeking terrain. When you need something to burn down, I will be the balm that heals you.

I feel your hand leave my back to grip a five-alarm hard-on at my entrances. Which one...

I breathe in, I breathe out, I relax within my own vessel. I stretch three seconds into three minutes, slow-motion flames, and...

You are taking me through the back door. I am out-of-body now, rising to the occasion of my namesake: Alexis, helper of mankind -- I was born to do it, born to be your receiver, born to burn.

The torturous month you have endured deserves this pounding. I know how to transform your angst & anger into a cleansing detonation. And you know that burning alive is my specialty.

Today, the tenderness is not on the outside as you explode, and then collapse, melting into one single body, spilling down gently onto the floor.

Atop the ashes, you stroke my cheek in sanctified wordlessness, gaze open-heartedly into my eyes, and kiss me to the moon and back, smoldering all the way.