Gently upon my skin, carved deep into this flesh,
the memories, the possibility, our loose ends and longing.

No matter how I try, I can’t quite persuade
my body, my mind that I no longer
yearn for the maddening
lightness of your
touch.

As my lips meet your skin, they can only ever hint at the desire that storms inside me.

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.

Somehow, to find the one
who would lightly brush his lips
along this landscape and call it home.

You retreat.

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.

You live.

Talk and joke and laugh. Dance with abandon. Walk freely in the sun. Tilt your delicate face to meet its restoring rays.

You lie.

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.

For him.

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.

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.

My skin
is incomplete
without your fingerprints.

More than that impossible moment, more than your desire and audacity, your kiss and sweet skin,
I wanted your words, your trust, your truth and your respect.

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.

 Slink in to see this week’s delectable players…

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.

The storm’s rolling in
And the windows are rattling
And this ache for you is pounding
So hard my body’s threatening to break