she called

She is as sensitive as a Spanish mare. She is responsive finding her way through your bracken thicket. You listen. You relinquish. You find yourself.

Now that she has your attention she baits you, with whispers that call you close. Those whispers are promises founded in the words “listen, wait”. You find yourself waiting, waiting for something of which you know not. Your mind wanders while your body remains steadfast.

She paws your ground and calls you back. She promises love, life, and surprises. She knows you want to lie down and rest. She knows your rest is a masquerade hoping for the pulse of syrupped adrenaline injected into your heart. She reaches out, with her lashed eyes, and her muzzle finds your secret places.

It is pure pleasure, one where you discover unexpectant submission as you wait and listen for her approach.  Once your pulses are intertwined you have found home. The gate is open simply because you have learned to wait. She settles knowing you understand and chooses to bear intimate witness to your sating.

The sating has you hearing sounds you have never uttered. You listen and hear your body stutter an awkward “ec”.  You find yourself gasping out a partial sound calling you to “sta”y.  You find sight in places, and you “sy” sigh relief.

Ec·sta·sy is what you have found and she knows you have run away again to find answers in books, instead of in your own body. It is the human form of cribbing. You have it bad. Then the world takes another shift and you find yourself wondering if it is all a plot. Plotting is interrupted because she breezes in again, muzzle prepared to work magic, and she tells you not to take things so seriously. What have you done?
she calls
JT Murphy signing off for shift.


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