The Secret Lives of Plants

My lover is a willow tree woman.

The soft coils of her pale hair catch every breeze, twisting and dancing around her shoulders. Her clothes echo the softness of her body; cotton, velvet, textures that call out to the hand. She is grace, she is peace, she is quietude, and I take shameless advantage, sinking all my contrariness beneath her placid surface, where it dissolves, like sugar in tea.

You would think, if you knew her, that such a woman would be soft and yielding in bed - cooing, sighing, coming to her bliss like the last lines of a poem. Imagine her, dark lashes against her pale cheek, lips parted, the glory of her hair spilled out over a pillow; she must moan like this, cry out like this, curl long legs around her lover in a grateful embrace. Coming like a lady, the picture of femininity, a pink-hazed romantic ideal. Pliant, quiet, willow.

It's a lovely vision and completely wrong.

My love is an elemental force when she fucks, a raging storm brewing from the first fierce kiss, forcing my lips apart to accept her, and I am helpless; I bend like a reed to the strength of her passion. I am devoured, fed upon, held down by the bite of her demurely French-manicured fingernails, as her teeth catch my lip, as we tumble into bed with clothes half torn off and the marks of her hunger swelling on my skin. There is no delicacy, there is no mercy. The world becomes her darkened eyes, her hands, her body tense and demanding, the steady, predatory rasp of her breath. Her voice, so low and steady, every word sure as she tells me whose I am.

Disbelieve, if you will. I'm sure some of you dream of taking her into your beds, claiming that softness for your own. How beautiful, some of you think, she would look on her knees. Pliant. Quiet.

Dream away. I know the truth.

And the truth is - when my love lets that softness fall away from her, when she unbinds her Self from the pleasant, sweet, undemanding person the rest of the world sees - I wouldn't have it any other way. When I am burning up, seared by the furnace hidden inside her, when I am given up to her pleasure and commanded to wait for my own - while she rocks, the pressure of her inner thighs locked around my hips, her cunt the most beautiful perfect greedy suction while I try to wait, agonizing, every inch of me shaking like a leaf in her storm -

I am honored. I gladly offer myself to her, to be consumed in that fire night after night. To never be without her marks on my body, hidden under clothes, the way she hides.

Tell me I'm weak, tell me I'm a fool, that I should be more than this.

Just don't expect me to listen. I'm too busy, keeping my willow tree's secret.