Robert Scott Leyse
is the co-founder/editor/webmaster of Sliptongue,
a webzine devoted to frolic, pranks, and sex, of course. He has published
his writing in Mind Caviar and other sassy, smart, smut-peddling
venues. Leyse loves epigrams and bawdy illustrations. He offers this wise
advice: "Never slather a girl's ass with mashed cherries unless you're
prepared to lick them off while praising the shit out of her muscle tone
and complexion."
Visit
Robert Scott Leyse online to read his novel excerpts.
Illustration by Claudio
Parentela Visit his gallery
online.
Colors
Spill
for KC
Aimee,
seated erect on the carmine couch
and
clothed in black - the window behind
her
whirls into silver as her bracelets
flash
gold; and these colors spill
Into
the electricity of the space between us,
airy
density of desire. Her perfume conjures
pictures
of lilacs asway in a spring breeze
of
a morning - the latticework of a garden,
roses
climbing towards the blithe sun;
and
its scent-colors spill
Into
the buoyancy of my chest - my falling-
out-from-under
myself giddiness, desire's
dips.
The ruby blossom pinned to top
of
her dress moves in rhythm
to
her breath, dances inside my eyes
and
merges with her blue eyes;
and
these colors spill
Rapture
into my dissolving chest,
the
currents of desire. Aimee shivers |
|
as if
the fine crystal spray of a fountain
is
settling on the back of her neck;
and
the colors of her shiver spill
Tingles
into my nerves, such that hot
rain
trickles up and down my spine,
the
flarings of desire. I stroll towards her
and
her extended arms guide me towards
her
yearning mouth - quivering lips
and
agile tongue; and these touch-
sensation
colors spill
Surges
of vertigo into my dissolving
thoughts,
desire's gift of unity
with
sensation, absence of reflection.
Aimee
unzips her dress and squirms free
and
the heaving softness of her breasts
caresses
my cheeks; and the colors
of
her rippling skin spill
Urgent
heat into my thighs and back,
lead
me to seek the moist warmth
of
her life-source, desire's rush
to
satiation. I plumb deeply
and
lingeringly, savor her inner
swoon;
and the colors of trust
and
surrender spill
Vitality
and endurance into my muscles,
desire's
taut purpose. Aimee's liquid lips
pull
me under the surface of my skin;
and
her eyes open wider, allow me
to
fall into their upwellings of joy;
and
the surging colors
of
procreation spill
Trills
of delight into my boundaryless
body,
desire's union with every molecule
of
air. Aimee's hands clench tight
as
her body tightens; and my tight
colors
of gushing heat spill
Gasps
of bliss into her body opening
to
pull me deeper under the glow
of
her skin, desire's blurring
of
identities. Aimee tumbles into
wide-eyed
wonder, and I follow:
The
colors of Aimee's wonder spill
into
my awareness until I'm sails
of
satin, lifted on a soft breeze.
Mist
Garden (Love in Rainlight)
Each
droplet afloat in air's a prism warping light
into
rainbows as Cleo and I stroll aflutter among
trees,
vines, flowers - a garden in a Paris backyard,
St.
Germain: high walls, moss overgrown, fling
city
sounds distant, surround us with quiet -
time
stolen from bustle.
Stolen
time? We've stolen passage into a garden
belonging
to: who knows? And sunlight flickers
through
rain-mist - and spring ruts in the colors
of
flowers and foliage - and we feel lush,
we
do - lush as leaves carpeting the towers
of
trees, flowers spilling red, purple, gold,
and
white into the steamy air.
Cleo's
a child now - I'm a child now: as good
as
a prank, this stealing into a stranger's garden
and
kicking at the hammock we won't use: too
exposed
to possible glances. Under an oak's
Drooping
branches a giggling we go -
a
high ho a diddly o!
With
moss for bed and foliage for veils Cleo
and
I steal more than time: she isn't "mine,"
after
all - married, she is: another sort
of
prank to play! Ha, as if Cleo could
"belong"
to one man: sole ownership
of
Cleo's a laugh!
Cleo's
dress slips up to her belly - soft silky belly:
a
pillow of the Gods belly! - as if by magic,
Passes
over her head, is soon a heap of butterfly
wings
by oak's trunk. And her leg's shock white
against
the green moss - her eyes smiling,
arms
pulling me close.
But
stridence ignites in the entanglement
of
our tongues - I'm suddenly aswoon on waves
of
rising hunger, seeking to keep abreast
of
need's multiplication: Cleo's soft warm
mouth
exhales sparkling undulation,
ripples
my skin inside itself, as her fingers
ghost
dance
about my face -
dissolving
face.
Her
dark eyes become silver, pull me into
shivering
blitheness: I fall inside their joy
while
seizing handfuls of sleek skin.
So
many sensations at once! The sweet
sweat
of her crackling hair and fragrant
petals
of her lips - rose blossoms
bleeding
into blurred air.
Rainfall
quickens as Cleo's legs spread
and
I slip inside her - plumb deep slowly,
and
then accelerate - and then slow
again
- her deep draws of breath
in
rhythm to my probing as the rain
falls
through the leaves - trickle
sounds
and mercury flickers.
The
smooth white of Cleo's legs pressed
against
her chest (such a limber girl)
is
as if glimpsed in hallucination -
and
blurs as rain splashes through silvery
leaves
dancing in breezes rising
about
us clenched tight.
Cleo
shimmers into purr sounds - throaty
coos,
moans of bliss; her whole body
opens
into a swoon into which I rush
with
every spark of awareness - all
thought
blurs in louder rainfall
as
she squirms laughing.
Cleo's
belly opens to drink me as I rain inside
her
- and her eyes still drink me, pull me
freefalling
into life's wellspring aglow
in
their benign gaze. My skin drinks
the
sensation of rain splashing my back
and
of Cleo's softness wriggling below;
and
my eyes drink every detail
of
her bliss-altered face.
Cleo
smiles and her smile turns me inside out,
rains
shimmers from fingertips to toes, all
over
again. The rain accelerates as we writhe
on
the spongy moss: I glimpse buildings outside
the
garden walls rising high enough
to
kiss the clouds.
Rapture in
the Sepulchre Forest
Why do I recall the day:
Tuesday? - because
the dark flames of Cleo's
eyes blazed
a brand upon memory, froze
every detail
as plainly as if it's written
text
I can read on a screen.
Tuesday years ago: Cleo's
wavy tresses
are stirring swirls of vertigo
into my chest;
the sight of liquid obsidian
framing
her ivory face is like leaning
over the edge
of a high balcony, imagining
a fall -
that sighing and dying simultaneously
sensation: I can't help
but flick my flingers
through her hair's crackling
silk, swirl
it over my face, hunger
for more.
Where are we? Cimetiere
du Montparnasse,
Paris, early afternoon:
the play of emotion
on Cleo's cheeks outshines
the writhings
of sun on the puddles at
our feet -
the freshness of recent
rain, air so clear
it's as if glimpsed in dreams,
heightens
desire; and the presence
of the dead
- proof of life's transience
-
inspires daring.
Do we care if we're caught?
Life's
but a flicker of a dream,
and all knowledge
as arbitrary as the dance
of fallen leaves
on a stream! So why
not steal into
the sepulchre forest, and
find one to hide
in - clasp and kiss and
riot in?
Cleo's curves slip inside
my eyes
like electric gossamer threads,
twist taut
yearning into my muscles
- sweet agony
swells my blood-flow; and
my first
grasp of her wriggling behind
- soft
and smooth as silk pillows
- sends
surges of tingles to my
head.
A sepulchre door is opened,
and we glide
within - Cleo's eyes are
sparkling mercury,
unseizable pools of excited
light, and I press
her against the wall where
the names
of the dead are engraved;
and she presses
her bothered body against
mine, transmits
her bloodbeat through every
pore
of my touch-hungry skin.
Together we catch a wave
impossible
to swim against, resist
- not that we'd wish
to as we slip laughing to
floor and writhe
in the dust. Cleo's
purple slip of a skirt
and white wisp of a blouse
soon adorn
the iron wings of the dead
family's
crest - my clothes skulk
like scared
shadows where I've flung
them -
and she and I embrace as
if alone in bed
at home; and I seek to sink
inside
her ripples of hunger, liquid
undulating skin.
Ashes to ashes and dust to
dust? - Cleo
and I wrestle on the dusty
floor and ashes
cling to our sweat; I'm
drinking the pink
between her thighs, she's
tonguing
the length between mine.
A contest ensues:
can I maintain concentration
- tingle
her flower with tongue and
fingers
effectively - as her lips
and tongue
squeeze scattershots of
bliss
through my buoyant body?
Call it a draw: we forgo
foreplay to couple.
Are cold marble floor's
comfortable? I'm sure
neither of us know: Cleo's
lost in colors
of light passing through
stained glass - desire
leaps towards fulfillment
so forcefully
I lose the boundaries of
my body, and only
want to fall deeper into
the flarings
of her overflowing eyes.
The hard marble floor may
be a bed
of flowerpetals, for all
I know as Cleo's
erratic breathing beats
rapture
into my racing blood and
I turn inside
out inside her opening wide
to drink
me as I swirl tingling into
the bliss
of her all-embracing eyes.
Copyright ©
2004 Robert Scott Leyse. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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