Orgasmic Visions

The room seemed to crawl with color; psychedelic washes of color twisted into
intricate, Mandela-like patterns, swarming like tendrils on the wall.
Black-green swamp scenes so lush and organic that the leaning tree trunks could
be made of bone; the draping foliage and shadow a thin network of viscera, of
stretched flesh and trailing, looping vein. The room swirled, glistened, and
seethed. It was as if quicksilver had been mixed with the tempera or LSD into a
thin watercolor wash.
He approached the bed. The folds and ripples of the white sheet caught all the
colors in the room, spreading like a thin veneer over the rises and folds of my
body. He took hold of my sheet and gently pulled it away. Flawless skin, paler
than his, is picking up the profusion of color and glistening dampness throughout the room
My hair a curious purple-black, teased and tangled 'round my head. The soft bush of hair between my thighs wet with the images floating
through the nether, likewise glistened nearly violet. With the tips of his
fingers, he brushed my cheek, and then ran his had down the side of my neck and
cupped the swell of my breast in his palm. A flash of ecstatic lightning, full
of indigo and fire arced across the room, reflecting in my great black pupils;
energizing the figure beside me.
My voice became thick with sex, clotted, like a slow sap, like sweet oil. My
pounding emotions hot enough to drain the air of oxygen. "Come to me. Come into
me now." The husky pleadings, mixed with the moans and the thunderclap that
followed the lightning. He descended into the moist fragrant world of my bed and
body. Nothing mattered but my tongue in his mouth, his hand between my legs, his
two fingers inside me, and the slow rippling muscles inside my body. He pulled
my legs wide, the ancient ocean passage of pleasure with a pull greater than any
tide. He lowered his face in me, ran his tongue around my swelling bud, and then
let himself slip into my ruby depths. My eyes glistened in the swirling clouds,
paroxysms of pleasure overpowering every nerve; muscles involuntarily moving
with the rhythms that have moved the earth since its creation. My bed moves as
if a kaleidoscope, the mirrors making hexagons as it spins through an eon of
pushing, turning, pulling. Triangles, polyhedrons, trapezoids, translucent
spheres geometrically repeated in reverse images, constantly moving, pressing,
changing. The cataclysmic explosion of white into the ruby womb of life brings a
chorus that has resounded from the primal depths of sexual thrill and has not
changed since the only colors were the orange of the fire in the cave.