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Exotic Magazine - Uncovering The Northwest Since 1993

Naughty In November

by Anna Suarez

I tell him my favorite seasons are fall and spring. The transitions. The death and the rebirth. The radiant petit mort.

I am naughtiest in November and ablaze in April. My eroticism is infinite—burning brightly before the slow slumber of December and finally setting fire to the Earth in April, with my Lilium stargazers. In his mouth, I find death. In his mouth, he awakens my vulva with spring’s honey.

Dripping with honey, I awake to his soft voice explaining to a debt collector that he cannot make his monthly payment. He is uneasy and formal. Still entrenched in the remnants of dreams, I run my nose along his shoulder and bite his ear. He surpasses me with his weight, his scent and the forthcoming of autumnal sap between my legs.

With the taste of sweat on my lips, the pleasurable weight and the array of mouths spreading themselves circular on hot skin, I am arriving and fleeting simultaneously.

I arrive with his fingers calling forth the Gods to stir the currents—splashing my love all over his flesh. He says I taste delicious. I tell him to drink me. He sips my waters, before filling my mouth with pomegranate seeds to dress my insides before I fall.

His cock enters me slowly. This is the moment when I die.

Teeth biting against the bitterness, my vulva drowning in the sweetness, the morning sun gains its strength and strikes us with its hot rays. All that is visible behind the blinds are the burgundies, the oranges, and the golds burning brightly with us. Dying with us. Radiant with us.

I have visions of walking against the transient earth—in the woods, near our peach stained bed. I watched the sun fade away, as the woods darken, leading me into the interiors of my desire that exist in between life and death. The late September flowers burst like full scarlet mouths, drawing their final course in the space between desire and climax.

He wraps his hands around my neck, sticking his fingers in my pomegranate-stained mouth, pulsating with more, more, more, harder, harder, faster. The sweep of burgundy dogwoods in the wind summon the peak. The golden peak. Oh fuck, baby.

A peony unfolding in the heat and wilting at the first rush of cold air, I release my honey as his sap soaks the sheets. Soaks the Earth. The lace curtains sway with the gentle rhythm of our bodies unifying after orgasm. I clasp my hands with his. Sleep takes me. I die.

Pomegranate in my belly, I am taken to the underworld. The air smells like its full of shadows. The trees stand regally in their stillness, as I am swept far beyond the realm of golden warmth. I run my hands along the foliage. The ferns are silky in the moonlight and I am stepping upon fallen chestnuts. The trees act as high-standing protectors in the darkness. I grip the bark and find his body in the density of the bark, a remanence of his hands...his cock...his thighs. A gentle moss rests against the bark and I run my hands through the hairy softness. As I caress the tree, I am reenacting our caresses—my hands embracing the head of his cock, as he runs his fingers through the hair on my pussy. I crave our bed. I crave our interactions with the natural world—the moments when the sun illuminates the weight of our single climax. The way the breeze amplifies our cries of agonizing pleasure. But, the life has fallen from the trees now. There is a lack of light. A lack of life.

Deep within the darkness, I find his embrace among the moonlit ferns. His hands generate a warmth through my body, as I realize I am not alone in this darkness. I do not rise from these depths without the gift of pleasure. He takes my hand. I follow.

He guides me to a dark room with our large bed. The lights out. The shades drawn. Just the bed. Just us. The cold air surrounds the exterior of our love and rain pours aggressively with its loud droplets; eventually, the snow arrives with its all-immersive grayness, the space outside begins to chill, stripping the Earth of its life, the woodland animals fall asleep, the icicles form and melt all around us—but, none of it matters. Inside, in our bed, as the world freezes upon us, we heat our pocket of space in between realms with the pleasure steaming off our bodies. Making love and caressing all day, we hide deep from the darkness. His cock, my vulva, mouths and crevices—all building blocks against the wind.

And, when that first bud begins to bloom with the April light, I find another reason to be. The evergreens extending themselves past all of my senses, in a world where kisses scar my abdomen with its gold light...I find another reason to be. In your arms, in every realm, in every season, I find a reason to be.

And, a reason to die.