They can only be the bearers of suggestion, even as they brush for the first time the soft curve of your nape, as they graze sensuously along the length of your hardness, as they stain every inch of your flesh with my favoured scarlet rouge.
They can only ever hint, dance around this barely contained yearning, until I press my breasts into your back and my fingers surrender themselves to the indulgence of gliding up into the dark curls on your chest, each digit lingering on the pounding in your heart, memorising the pulse between your legs.
They can only hint at the way I crave you, the way my wanton mouth will kiss and feed, the way I will drink your groans, suck the hunger from your tongue, devour the need dripping from your flesh, the way my delicate body will arc above you, the way I will tremble and moan and break beneath you, my cunt enveloping you, engulfing you, binding you close as I come hotly over your naked and ravenous cock.
Even as they speak to you from across vast lands and oceans, they can only hint at the depth and the fire of this uncontrollable want.
Finally fall silent. Instinctively lock all the words away.
You befriend pretence.
Paint the smile upon your lips. Conceal the eyes once bright behind the darkest glass. Persuade your mind to cease its remembrance.
Talk and joke and laugh. Dance with abandon. Walk freely in the sun. Tilt your delicate face to meet its restoring rays.
Live out the lie. Embrace the comfort of performance. Fool those who surround you by day.
Until the truth returns.
Until honesty exacts its brutal revenge.
Until it comes to you in the gloaming, in the moment the night’s nascent darkness dims the walls and cools the air.
Until it comes for you, preying upon your soul and your body, plundering the craving that refuses to sleep.
The craving. The hunger.
The hunger confessed in whispers and sighs to empty rooms, in the sheen upon your skin when his voice rushes back, in the sodden mess your hand seeks out compulsively between your legs.
The hunger to have him again, to have him want you again, to have him overwhelmed with every desire you represent, with the intensity burning to ash his own flesh, with the force to bind and grip you and trace the bruises on your softness, the need to taste your breath as he takes your mouth, as his lips and tongue fuck you with their kiss and your sweet and filthy little cunt weeps for his thick uncut hardness, cries to have him prise you open, to fill the void of your most intimate place, to mark you as his forever, to anoint you as his lover, his woman, his cockwhore, his queen.
Once upon a time, his gaze studied every inch of my fair body, as if it were a wonder born in a bygone era, a curiosity fashioned from canvas and brushstrokes and oils, worthy of the gallery wall, the hungry crowd, deserving of his centre stage.
Once upon a time, his hands roamed with passion, urgency and fervour, as if these curves were chiselled from cold and unyielding marble, this skin and flesh brought to fiery life by desire and her sculptor, softening under his touch, melting on his lips and tongue, reaching and begging for his own thick hard need to claim them.
Once upon a time, he yearned to feel, devour, remember, the woman beyond this creation, the being beyond mere pixels on the screen.
He is the dream.
He’s that dream.
The one that wakes you from the deepest sleep at three a.m.
Some nights, with nothing more than a lone finger. Tenderly running the length of your naked body as your breath is soft and sweet and easy. Tracing the contour of your delicate spine with its trembling tip as you lie on the side of the dark and your delicate heart beats in time with each whispered word, with every memory, with the intensity of his yearning and his sensual kiss.
And on others, with the carnal need and insistence that electrifies your very soul. The hands that prise you apart then prize you, stroking the pearl of your pleasure until your thighs shiver and splay, until your glistening cunt silently calls and begs for his perfecting flesh. The mouth pressed into your ear as he fingers your tight, wet heat. The ravenous tongue circling each rising peak of your breast as his weight bears down upon you and he finally eases his hard thickness inside you to the hilt, filling you so completely you both cry out in ecstatic anguish, shattering indelibly the stillness of the night.
He is the dream.
He’s that dream.
The one my mind and body refuse to release, to erase, to forget.
My body, my mind, they will not settle. And neither will the words.
They assault me, rush through me, as if they also know the frustration of this unfulfilled yearning, hitting hard the screen and the page, my fingers frantically typing, clutching like a lifeline the coolness of the stylus, the words screaming, outpacing, flitting through the fragments, details found then lost and overcome, darting from one page to another, too restless and desirous and uneasy to stay for a moment longer, to complete and realise the utterance forever twisting into knots my stomach, pulsing and glistening between my thighs, lingering on my lips and the tip of my tongue.
In the silence, in their wake, I look upon their trace, and all I see, all I feel is you.
You and your smile and the warmth of your hand and the sound of your laughter and the resonance of your voice and the minute round midnight your breath caught in your throat and your black gaze grew darker as I confessed on my knees the primal need for your blistering seed on every inch of my skin and deep inside my cunt and my womb, the intimacy my body craves through the day and its night, this fusion of man and woman, of you and me, this mark of your ownership, my possession of your hard aching sex, your name etched in my secret flesh with the force of your desire, with the roar of your body, with the very tremble of your soul.