You live in the sigh, in this body’s rapturous arc, in the yearning buried deep in my bones, in the flutter, in the rush, in the softness of this skin and the dripping violence between my legs, in the gleam that prickles this flesh each time your voice comes flooding back, in the night before as I open this woman to these primal desires, as I drench and tangle and knot the sheets on my bed, in the morning after when I invariably hunger, when these lips long to know, long to know you, long to dress you in scarlet smudges, in teasing caresses, in long deep passionate kisses.

Baby… Come… Come back… Come back to me… There’s no need to deliberate… There’s little need to speak… Bathe yourself in this brand new day… Cleanse your nakedness in its radiance… Immerse yourself in the here and now… As you once again hold and know my body… As you once again fill your lungs with desire’s heady scent… As you once again surrender completely… As you once again allow yourself to disrobe your passions and shed your aching skin… As you once again crave the fusion of our hot sweet ragged breath… As you once again hunger for the woman before you and the merging of our souls and this flesh…

The velvet shadows swathe me, possess me, sensually arc this expectant body,
surrendering this aching desire, this trembling femininity to the light, to its potency,
to its caressing lustre, the precursor to your own gleaming and provocative touch.

“I love the way you use that word in your writing. I become instantly hard just seeing it glowing on the screen. So many women fear it, are repelled by it, but not you. Not you.”

I can’t help but smile slyly at his admission.

He leans forward in an attempt to keep our salacious discussion at a discreet level as we sit in a quiet basement restaurant a stone’s throw from a four-top of suits indulging in a boozy weekday lunch and lingering gazes that are quite obviously undressing my lithe body, slowly but surely, one fine garment at a time.

“I can sense just how it excites you. It’s palpable. I feel the fire of your flesh radiating as I read. Each time I see the word, I think about your body, your uninhibited desire and wonder…about the parts of you shielded, unseen.”

My smile bursts open, a mixture of warmth and momentary shyness, as the blush blooms high on my cheeks. I know for a fact my clear blue eyes are blazing because he is now transfixed, and much like our dining companions to my left, unashamedly staring, his look languidly roaming from these eyes to the full mouth rouged scarlet to the contour of my breasts and the beauty spots underneath the collarbone he aches to lightly kiss and trace, all memorised in minute detail from the photographs I share.

“Now that we’re sitting here together – finally – and I can see you and feel your heat and smell the hint of your perfume from across the table, all I crave is the opportunity to hear your sultry voice say it.”

I mirror his gesture and move that little bit closer, my hands caressing the edge of the table directly in front of me before my fingers dance along the wooden frame to clutch at each periphery. My back straightens, elongates, the small arching ever so slightly as my sex pulses against the panties and the tightest denim I own. Unconsciously, I cross my legs, press my thighs together and grind myself into the chair. Dressed in a midnight black balconette and bordered by a complementary cashmere knit, my pert breasts rise and fall with each hot breath. His gaze wanders again, taking me in, landing at last on my hands, on the tips now a mere inch from his own.

I part my mouth, unsealing it with the smallest of sighs. My tongue licks along the edge of the fleshy bottom lip before I speak. The corners of my eyes and the long ebony lashes uphold my mischievous smile.

It’s his turn to grin with a wickedness that lights his entire face.

“Which word?”

I ask the question softly, a little coyly.

He doesn’t buy my stalling tactic for a minute. While the anticipation is maddening, it is also arousing and thickening his glans, out of sight under the table, in a way he can barely control. That thought alone leaves me ravenous, lustful, wanton. In response, my tips caress the grain of the wood, drawing long, fleshy lines as I imagine the curve of his straining sex trapped in its own denim prison, the sound of the metal teeth as I glide down his zip, the lurch of his naked shaft as it meets the cool air, the ridges and veins and the scent of his desire and the pearl of precum begging to be smeared by my thumb, begging to be brought to my mouth, suckled and savoured.

He regards me again as I hesitate.

He’s waited two years; he can certainly wait another minute.

“Beautiful minx, won’t you say it for me?”

The teasing and imploring softness in his voice leaves me vulnerable, weak. I can feel my core beginning to melt. But shrugged shoulders are my only reply. My eyes continue to beam; my lips are under strict instruction to hold their ground.

“So… Is this the way we’re playing it?”

Another shrug and a shake of my head and wild mane is all the answer I provide.

“Say it.”

With this simple phrase, his playful tone drains away. All of a sudden, there’s an edge in his voice. A dominant edge. An edge that has filtered through our communiqués on numerous occasions, leaving me more inflamed than I could readily admit.

The small triangle of diaphanous silk covering my mound is without warning sodden as the idea of his possession releases the flood from within, as the visual of being roughly taken by him from behind, in front of these men – his hands tearing my clothing to shreds, my jeans pushed over my hips, down my slender thighs and past my knees to settle chaotically on the tops of my stiletto ankle boots, his digits pinching my crimson nipples inside the lace remnants as he towers over me, fucking me hard and deep, his sex emerging slick and shiny with each decisive thrust – momentarily blinds me.

“Say it.”

My eyebrow arches in defiance and just as quickly yields and relaxes.

“Say it.”

I shiver in response. He is reducing me to a trembling submissive, to a little kitten. And he knows it.

“Say it. Now.”

My heart pounds, I shift in my seat, my eyes widen.

“Cunt.”

I whisper the word into the ether between us. His breath catches in his throat.

“Cunt.”

With this utterance, he visibly shudders. I have clawed back a little of my control.

“Cunt.”

Leaning back in his chair, he stifles a groan, acutely aware of the public space in which we find ourselves as well as his need to give in to his own touch, to the passions of his flesh, to his desire for me.

“My sweet tight little cunt…”

The five little words hang between us, clearly demanding more, clearly longing for completion.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… cock.”

Even through the aroma of the Mediterranean fare drifting from the open kitchen behind me, I can smell, almost taste, his arousal; I can feel the heat radiating up through his trousers. His scent is so overwhelming that the thought of his pulsating meat instantly waters my mouth and cunt in equal measure.

Yet I rein myself in as I sense the proximity of his defeat and undoing. The sweat prickling his brow and the clenched fists resting on his tensing thighs are all the encouragement I require.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… your cock.”

This time he exhales with force, his breath intertwined with a simple “Fuck” that lashes my sweet little cunt like a live wire. The pounding ache spreads through my entire body with a strength that sees my own skin glowing with the sheen of desperation.

As I watch his craving rise up and take hold, as I watch him sublimating the need to grab and stroke his burnished glans then and there with a roughness of hand, running his palm over his beard, down the strong curve of his neck, his fingers eventually clawing and clutching at his nape, another series of images assault me: the chair toppling as I stand in haste; my slight figure hovering over his six foot plus frame; the large hand on my hip as I straddle his legs; his digits sliding into the border of my jeans, fingering the drenched lace fused to my bright flesh; my nakedness gleaming under the lights and his mouth engulfing, devouring my cunt, his lips sucking my clit, my body trembling, screaming his name as I come hotly on his tongue.

Our eyes meet and I smile openly, somewhat brazenly. The temptress in me emerges. The kitten will keep for another day.

“Cock.”

He is putty in my hands. And he knows it.

“I also love cock. I love the way it shapes and fills my mouth, the way it eases my soft, pouting lips apart, the way these lips lushly wrap themselves around that single…delectable…vowel.”

He turns to meet our neighbours’ stares. Judging by his smirk, our entire conversation has been overheard. One of the men shifts, planting his gaze firmly upon me. Even as I feel it burning into the side of my face, my eyes don’t stray from my man.

“I love the way it sounds out, the air thick with a masculine potency once it’s released, the way my voice can vary it, the way I can feel it thickening, engorging with speed and urgency, the way I can taste it on my tongue, its slick, salty tang, its sweetness sating my feminine hunger, the way I can milk it, lusciously lick the head of the word before ravenously consuming it, gliding it slowly down my throat, swallowing it, fucking it with the fervour of my want, my blistering breath.”

At last, I turn to acknowledge the four-top. I stretch out my hands on the flat of the table, a silent call for his teasing touch, for his repossession. The temptress and the kitten are duly rewarded.

“Yes. I also love cock. In case you had failed to notice.”

It is the kiss that transforms me.

It is the caress of his lips as we begin to wake, the seductive scrape of his beard along the curve of my back, the glide of his mouth chasing the streaks of the sun and the marks of our passion sinfully spent in the dark, the touch trembling, stilled by the heart, by the breath, by the woman softly, quietly, rising and falling, the flesh hard and oiled and throbbing plunging into the aching depths of the forbidden, sinking into the velvet embrace of the craved, of the unknown.

I miss you.

And the way things used to be.

And the way we were together.

And the fire – our fire – that would threaten to annihilate us both, sparked by the simplest word, the briefest gaze, the smallest sigh, the mere brush of bodies and fingers and trembling lips.

And the instant I felt you, felt you inside me, felt you deep in my flesh and my bones, felt you and your gaze and your weight and your voice as new and unknown and yet just like home.

And that moment, that one perfect moment where time stood still and the distance between us contracted and you genuinely craved my warmth, my truth, where we laid each other bare, stripped away the fear, the hesitation, all pretence, where we confessed it all with intimacy and absolution, where we revealed like never before, where we merged with lust and sin and tenderness, where we stood on the precipice, on the brink of something real, something more.

And the freedom of this desire – this desire for you – the freedom to feel it, to speak it, to live it and breathe it, to fuck it, to kiss and touch and devour each other until we moan and clutch and scream and come, until our bodies tremble in exhausted bliss, until they silently beg again for the glistening heat, to fuck you, to fuck it and fuck it up so absolutely you will dress me in your angry silence and cold resentment and I will shed big hot furious tears, to fuck it up, to tear us apart, to piece the shreds back together again with passion, with lightness, with careful words softly spoken, with easy steps and a gentle caress, with gestures verging on affection, on love.

The day breaks in softness, its hushed tones and muted voices merging with the memory of the night and its darkly wanton edges, enveloping the curves feminine, whispering to my sensual passions, to the woman reaching out, arching up, longing to receive your touch.

And once you meet me, once your hands finally unearth me, once they ease this suppleness open, once your caress begins to know, my body trembles, shivers, moves from order into chaos, overtaken by its yearning to shatter all boundaries between us, to feel you melt into this velvet ache, into the skin always desperate, impatient for the sweet burn of your kiss.

You feel it. You sense it. I know.

Even as it is laid out here for you, in shades of grey, in black and white, for your eyes to clearly gaze upon and see, the reflection threefold, her and her and her, her and them and me, I know you scarcely require this fractured image before us both to sense it, to crave it, to seek out and inspire the multiplicity within me, the varied facets of my lust, the desires that scream through this body and mind, that rise up through my skin at each and every given moment as I inhale your scent, as I breathe you in, as you move in close, as you press your nakedness in tight, as the first touch of your hands along the curve of my litheness betrays an urgency, a carnal ferocity I hunger right along with you through the night, as you pull aside the sodden lace between my thighs and plunge the hard ache of your cock inside me in one selfishly perfecting sinuous stroke, as my sweet cunt soaks you, takes you, envelops and milks you yearning for the fire of your seed, my grinding hips, my pouting clit, my wet wanton sex, the nails drawing blood, digging into flesh at odds with the sensuality of my moan, my mewl, the hands wound about your nape, the whispers uttered from these lips, my passionate and searching kiss.

You feel it. You sense it. You recognise and yearn for it. Lover, this much I know.

You and me
Shutters closed
At last alone
Craving nothing more
Than each other

Soaring into the night sky, bathed in neon, caressed by these city lights, I breathlessly await the perfection of your touch, the fingers dancing on this skin, your strong arm wound about my waist, the urgent hands drawing my hungry nakedness into the throbbing ache of your heat, the voracious cock nudging at the lips sodden with my lust, the thumb feeding itself into the mouth whimpering its need, the bodies locked together deep, pressed hard into the glowing crystal screen, our abandoned passion threatening to shatter glass and souls and flesh to dust.