Voluptuous Voyage.

She sits, precariously perched on the edge of a tree limb. The world is her cage, the Universe her sacred altar upon which to stretch out and spiral and spill.

Her strings get tangled up in themselves sometimes, feeding her nourishment, controlling her movements, and allowing her the graceful dance of prostrating to Other.

She is not suspended by twine, or hooks, or rods. She is a living system, a holon amidst holons. And it is vasculature that holds her up in the morning, and pushes her to her knees once dusk falls. Blood and lymph and fluid flowing constantly. Every surge reverberates through her body, tickling her insides, pulling out undulations of open-hearted bliss.

She wears her heart on her sleeve, and it is safety-pinned there, with a few patches and too-many different colored threads that look like they were placed caringly, but haphazardly, to heal the ruptures that once were. When she breathes deep into her belly, her pussy quakes and her strings shake.

Her puppeteer feels her every twist, the pull of her will yanking on his hand, drawing him to chase her to push her to sting her with his whip to paint her with his kisses. Voluptuous voyage of ever-increasing fluidity. And the water takes her. And the water takes her. Takes her body, her rhizomatic form, her orgasmic-potential, the poetry that is about to scream from her lips and be scrawled upon the vessel that is she. She cringes as the nib of the fountain pen digs deep into her.

Momentary resistance before the first exhalation that is surrender. Continuous prayer. Unfolding desires. Unfolding them like a map that can’t become small again once expanded. And she is breathed. He breathes her. She shivers. She gasps, trying to catch herself, trying to hold onto some semblance of stability.

“You are my vessel, my beauty, my nectar, my honey, my doll,” he says.

And her eyes widen in response, soaking up his pleasure-rays, soaking up the ownership that emanates from his lips via the beating bloody heart in his chest. Her thoughts turn quiet. Her body takes over. All she sees is him. All she can do is fall further into his embrace.

He holds her strings. She is still perching, but now it is with full awareness that it is not of her concern; it is not of her will; she exists to be a vessel. She is a vessel. She is a vessel. The form that is malleable.

The dynamism of her soul sings love-songs to the wind. She falls deeper. She swoons, and she falls. She shivers, and she falls. Her cunt aching, pulsing, torturing her now. Her heart gushing the sparkle of life-nectar all over her curves.

She tumbles over, but she is not clumsy. It is not possible for her to be clumsy. She is a vessel. She is a consort. She is ever-graceful. Her movements are not her own, though she consents to them. And her consent adds a layer of spectacle that could never be painted on by artificial means.

She dances as she loses contact with the branch. There is no panic. There is no anxiety. She breathes a sigh of deep relief. She has been waiting for this for so long. She is falling, and it is okay. It is okay.

She is falling. And all is well. And all shall be well. And she is not losing herself in worthless oblivion; she is surrendering. She is already caught.

The breath of the Sky caressing her. Rushing through her hair. Counting her inhalations like beads on a mala. Perfectly unscripted.

Moans escape her lips. She is already caught. AND SHE WILL BE CAUGHT YET.