To have you here, lover. To hold your ache between my lips. The lightness of your being etched deep into my sensual flesh. The intensity that stirs your soul, a sheen upon this skin. The gaze that reveals it all to me, that veils you once more in mystery. The kiss that maps the bright, its home these silken hollows. The utterance that guards the dark, the wanton shadows craved.
The mention of your name, the recollection of your voice, your kiss on my bare warmth, incites the riot, the rush of liquid fire, this immovable desire, this obstinate lust, the fingers gliding, snaking down this body to touch, to touch, to touch myself for you, to fuck my cunt, to come for you again, to release the sigh, the whimper, the cry, the scent of my sex that has etched itself into your psyche, your very flesh, your hunger hard and aching, the gleam of your yearning.
In her sensual arc, he receives the sigh, the burnish of the sun on her skin, the piquancy of her wetness, the sweetness of her perfume, the desire that burns through flesh and bone, the need for his breath soft against her nakedness, for the hands and his touch and their landfall, for the caress along the grain, along the curves now trembling, aching for his uniquely perfecting form.
The silk ties cradled in his hands are a mere formality.
For they both know, it is his voice, the deep accented timbre, the gaze of his desire, his commands that bind her and bind her to him absolutely, that leave her breathless, trembling, that guide her slender wrists to rest obediently in the small of her back, that speak directly to the skin silently screaming for the indelible trace of his touch, to the supple body aching to submit, to be bound, to buck wildly, arch and strain against the ropes as he takes her, fucks her, claims her, as his mouth feasts ferociously on the slickness of her sex, as he buries his thick hard cock inside her so deep, her sweet cunt bares the imprint of his flesh, his name.
Does she touch you?
Does she touch you the way I would do?
Does her lustful desire compel her to close the space between you, to seek you out as you stand in a crowd, to trace with her delicate hand the line of your broad shoulders, the curve of your back as the eyes of surrounding hopefuls are upon you, their gazes devouring, brazenly undressing your imposing, muscular form?
Does she ache to feel you, to feel you against her once you’re alone, to press her body into yours once you’ve shut out the world, once four mere walls are all you require, all she needs to sate the immediate longing to have her fiery breath arousing your golden skin?
Does she reach out when you least expect it, when the burdens of the day threaten to wear you thin, when you silently crave a reminder of her fervour, to caress that soft spot on your neck, to brush her thumb across the peaks of your mouth, to lower her lips and stain your nape with the scarlet of her wanton kiss?
Does she finger your flesh with her voice, with the whispered promise, with her sultry sighs and ecstatic moans, with the words and wants you effortlessly inspire, with the very verse you pen and create, her utterance bringing them to life anew as she opens herself, as she takes them into her hot little mouth, as she slides them between full, eager lips, winding them seductively, expertly around the pink slickness of her tongue, tasting and savouring each syllable, licking languidly each letter, savouring all trace of your need, the trace of your essence?
Does she speak to you with her femininity, her raw sexuality, with each of her senses, with the glistening arc of her body, with her sensual and carnal caresses because words are often deficient, because language isn’t nearly enough, because she craves and craves you with a force beyond order and control and articulation, a phenomenal and primal intensity, a corporeal eroticism that bares your longings, all yearnings, discovers all knowledge in your perfecting and voracious flesh?
Does her body overtake, her passions overwhelm, her pulse race, her blood scream through her veins as she takes you by the hand, sinuously treading the path for you to follow, silently guiding you to the mirrored wall, to the reflection of her scarcely contained hunger, to the vision of the contrast of the ebony lingerie drawn tight against her fair skin, to your deliciously measured revelation at her hand, slender fingers teasing away each stitch and thread, unbuttoning your shirt, unlinking your cuffs, unbuckling the leather belt that will soon find its way around her throat, easing down the trousers and boxers sodden with your precum, exposing your hard and throbbing uncut cock to the coolness of the air and the softness of her breasts and the enveloping velvet greed of her sex?
Does she plead for more, for more, for more of you as she arches above, as she straddles your thighs and grinds her hips, your cock buried so deep nothing but this sensation matters or exists, does she whimper for you to take her, to fuck her without restraint or mercy, to unleash the beast within, to come, to come with her as she floods your glans, to come inside her with a violent roar, to have you paint her body with your seed, to run her fingers through the slick, to bring herself to another shuddering orgasm as you raptly look on, instantly aroused once more, denying you only to tempt your cream to become one with her skin, the mark she has been newly possessed by you, by the only man she truly longs for every night, every day?
Does your absence set in her ache, does she lie alone, naked and gleaming, draped in impenetrable shadows pining to live out the fantasies running riot, does she wake throbbing wet as the memory of you assaults her sexual soul over and again, does she tease her clitoris, finger her cunt as she cries into the ether the need for your return, the need to have you in her arms, the need for the union of your licentiousness, the need to have you fill the emptiness of her bed, her mouth, her intimate flesh, her most secret forbidden place?
Does she touch you because it makes little sense to leave you be, to leave you waiting, lingering, to leave your yearning flesh and primal passions unattended, does she touch you to indulge you, to inflame your own need for her touch and mind and body too, to have you equally desperate for this fusion, for skin on skin, flesh in flesh, man and woman, your dominance and her submission, for the seductress, the temptress, the shivering release of the treasured girl within, for the pout of her mouth and her devouring kiss, the crimson peak of her nipple, the alluring smoothness of the sweet cunt and its molten fire on your tongue, for her lithe suppleness writhing under your body and its weight, for the addictive taste of her mystery, for the libations that leave you soaked and sated, that leave you wild and ever hungry, that leave you in no doubt of the longings that destroy her, that leave you in no doubt of her want?
Does she touch you? Does she crave you?
Does she crave you utterly and completely the way I do?