I can almost feel your hand replacing mine between these thighs. I can almost feel your thumbs circling the yielding softness above the stocking tops.
I can almost feel your finger tracing my jawline with a subtlety that leaves me struggling for breath, before you tilt lightly my chin to feed the hunger blistering my tongue with your kiss and your burnished flesh.
I can almost feel your shaft thicken and harden in my delicate palm, just as I can almost hear your body groan the syllables of my name.
I can almost feel your knees easing my legs wide apart. I can almost feel your beard marking each trembling curve and hollow with the gleaming fire from my sweet cunt.
When I sit here watching the day’s fading light, I can almost feel every stroke, every thrust of your savage need, every cry from my own body as you take me, as you fuck me with your carnal darkness.
You will forever be an enigma; the secrets and mysteries, the temptation my hands and tongue and mind and molten cunt hunger to grasp for the briefest of moments, to savour and remember your flavours, to etch the passions that seethe and live inside you into every sacred and gleaming place, even as this knowledge absolute is denied us.
Even as that refusal flickers across this delicate skin, binds me to your body, inspires a boundless craving few will ever touch or comprehend.
Silk on skin.
Groans and sighs.
Sodden lace fused to molten flesh.
Your gleaming salt on my tongue, my pungent sweetness glossing your lips.
The ebony bands drawn tight against this fair and ravenous body as you bind my wrists behind my back with a strap of leather that bears my wanton scent.
Your hands, at once domineering and tender, sliding between the softness of thighs that silently beg to surrender, to give themselves over to you completely, that hunger for you to spread them so shamelessly wide we will fear, for the briefest moment, each of my delicate bones will shatter and break.
The violence of the scarlet of your visibly aching, burnished glans circling, tracing areola of the palest pink, marking and teasing and filling their raspberry peaks with a need that will overwhelm the space between these four, unassuming walls, that will consume the freshness of the ether with ragged breaths and sultry pleas.
Of this, I dream endlessly. And more, so much more.
Just as I dream about you.
Cloaked in velvet shadows, bathed in dazzling light, I have little choice but to bare my soul, lay down my truth, curve, arc and unfurl this body, lead the woman to hope, to the wonder, to the sights and sounds and flavours of this life’s complexity, its pleasures, verve and intensity, its infinite sensuous mystery.
But once I fall into the night and its darkness, once I slide slowly into my dreaming, our entwined bodies are bathed in an amethyst lustre so intense and absolute that my lips and tongue physically yearn and hunger to reach out, to taste its warmth, its richness, its flavour, all of your sensual and carnal secrets, straight from your hard and naked flesh.
To my readers, friends and muses, my heartfelt thanks and gratitude for your unerring support,
your dazzling inspiration, your communion with the words and imagery,
for the glorious gifts you continually bestow upon me.
Thank you all for a truly memorable six years.
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.