Still Pond

Still Pond

peace_tranquilityForbidden, yet still she remains, floating untethered, her reflection enraptured in pearl grey silk.

Aching, I dare not stir, my hands a shiver twitch remembering the feather strokes on soft swells. Peaks and valleys, a march, a cadence I’d ne’er felt, the stranger that was me, brazen in the face of the building storm.

Soothing haze tickles and pricks memory still livid from an awakening too delicious to bear, the fruit so sweet it cloys and humbles in its fullness, filling emptiness with luscious warmth, too solemn for voice, too wicked to deny.

Pity and callous youth and the artful stirring of flesh rendered sin harsh and bold, each stroke a revelation, a punishment … glorious rapture pumping veins coiled in tight heat, exploding in joy so sheer, so unexpected, it drained all sensation.

The ease to night heralds beginnings as I await my turn once more, cold coins jingling.

About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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2 Responses to Still Pond

  1. scavola says:

    this is why you are the MASTER!

    Like

  2. Nya Rawlyns says:

    Thanks, kind sir, I appreciate that.

    Like

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