Your mouth on me.

The chaos of its unrelenting want. The blur of lips and tongues. My body jolted back to life with each connection of wet hunger and gleaming skin.

Your cock deep inside me.

The thickness of your flesh and the cry from my lips and the heat of my melting cunt. The fusion of our bodies and the flavour of your soul on my tongue.

This is all it takes. Two seemingly simple movements, two mere moments of pleasure.

And I am enslaved.

And I am yours.

I could spill thousands of words on each erotic detail, on every sharp intake of breath, on every touch that reduces our skin to shivering gooseflesh. But it wouldn’t be enough. They are never enough.

Because without you, without your body against mine, without my body against yours, without your fingers wound in my tresses guiding my mouth to your glistening shaft, without the genuflecting woman before you who aches to worship every inch of your flesh, without the fire of your voice on my skin, without my legs around your waist as you fuck me, without the intimacy of our kiss and the carnal savagery of this lust, without your come anointing my most sacred place, the words are nothing, nothing but ghosts and echoes.

Tell me how you fantasised about me when you were fucking other men.
Tell me how it excited you, how it affected your lovemaking.

Where do I begin?

Do I begin with the way you’re on my mind, in my body, the way you haunt my sexual cravings and fantasies?

Do I begin with the seemingly innocent, initial meetings with these men, with my complex meditations and responses, with the way my thoughts strayed to your voice as they chatted and laughed, with the way I wondered about your scent, your cologne, the unique warmth of your skin as I sat mere inches from theirs, as my concentration drifted from them to you and back again, as I finally allowed myself to linger on the image of their touch on my nakedness?

Do I begin with the way your phantom whispers to me, whispers into my ear, sinks to his knees and growls directly into the heat between my supple thighs, that fiery wetness that craved you as I flirted and plotted future meetings and assignations with others?

Will that be too much? The knowledge that you’re with me always, taunting me, plucking at my curiosity, the need to know and taste – in every conceivable way – each glorious inch of your flesh? Even as my body is caressed by another? Even as I’m being tongued, split and enslaved by the cocks of other men?

Or… will the thought ultimately arouse you? Will it lick at your skin, wind its way into your flesh, sink into your bones? Will it quicken your pulse, tense your thighs, knot your stomach? Will it begin to breathe life into your cock, thickening and hardening your shaft, setting an ache in your balls that can only be sated by devouring me, fucking me, possessing me until I’m a writhing, trembling mess?

So, where do I begin?

Since I’m struggling to find that entry point, I’ll begin with the most obvious of beginnings.

With my naked body. With the act of adorning it for them.

Will it please you to know I selected with care my lingerie, my outfit, my stilettos, according to your taste?

Because I did just that, singling out the pieces you adore, the gossamer silks and laces that you’ve caressed in your mind and with your gifted hands, the ones you’ve imagined fingering, teasing, destroying, reducing to nothing more than shreds while you lie in your bed, shrouded in your darkness and the night.

I dressed my silken and perfumed body in the sheerest of black lingerie, slipped into the finest stockings, often hold-ups with deep, lace bands that offset my fairness, and allowed them to marvel, to memorise, to explore. I encouraged them to slowly tease up the hem of my skirt, remember the contrast of skin and silk. It took little persuasion as I moved from my place alongside them on the sofa and straddled their legs, as they pinned me to the cold and unforgiving wall, my wrists bound with their hands above my head. They touched me everywhere, lightly, roughly, with a gluttony that buckled my knees, drained me of the power of speech and flushed my cheeks with a speed that continues to surprise me.

And as they fingered the sodden gusset of my panties, as they pinched my nipples through the fabric, as they eased down the cups and took my pert breast into their groaning mouths, I thought of you. Each and every time, I wondered how your touch would differ, how your fingers would taunt me, how you would brush your thumbs and palms over my pale, pink halos to feel them stiffen to aching, rosy peaks, how you would nudge aside my thong and place your ravenous lips and tongue to my dripping cunt, how you would passionately kiss my sex, my hungry clitoris as you would my mouth.

Even as my body responded to their ministrations, I thought of you. Even as they scooped me into their arms and carried me into the bedroom, placed me in front of the mirror or onto the bed, I pictured you, craved you, needed you here with us. With me.

In my bedroom… you were a permanent fixture.

My voyeur. My beautiful voyeur.

Seated in a plush chair in the corner, watching with the kind of intent that sees the rest of the world melting away.

You devoured each scene with your gaze, your eyes following, often anticipating, the path of their hands as they revealed yet more of my soft and delicate body, as they grasped sensually my throat and caressed the line from its delicate beat to the sweet hollows of my hips, resting momentarily on the insides of my trembling thighs before spreading my stockinged legs wide to expose me, to bare my most intimate place to their desiring eyes, their ravaging fingers, their unrelenting thirst.

And the moment their hard cocks finally – finally – cleaved me open and filled me, it was everything I hungered for and yet, it was never quite enough.

They buried themselves inside me, my hips rising up for more, my lover murmuring unconsciously, growling over and again in time with each of his thrusts, “Fuck… fuck… fuck… your… pussy… your… sweet… pussy… is… so… fucking… addictive…” as my sex clutched at him, milked him from within. But I flooded my sex, his cock, the bed as I craved for a taste of you. Ached to feel you so deep neither one of us could speak or breathe.

I hungered for the way you take me, the way you possess this sweet cunt.

My cunt. Your cunt.

Fuck, how it yearned for you. Pulsed at the vision of you as I was overcome by the sensation of him. As he drove into me from behind, as my back arched and each orgasm crashed over me, my hands gripping at the sheets corrupted by hours of our lust, I imagined you stepping out of the shadows, your ghostly figure turned flesh and blood, climbing onto the bed, the mattress sinking under your weight, the tender brush of your hand on my cheek and then your finger softly titling up my chin, your cock the gift, the prize, the offering, your thick and oiled glans sliding slowly between my full lips, my tongue licking languidly then furiously, in pace with the other man’s dominating strokes so you could both fill me and mark me with your seed.

I wanted you in so many ways, I’ve lost track and count – the seductive preface of your lips on the curve of my nape, your reflection in the mirror as you bend me to your will, your face etched with pleasure as you plunge yourself past that mouth-watering point of resistance, our bodies pressed together so tight we longer know or care where we begin and end, your fingers digging into my hips, my nails raking your back, your mouth, your kiss, the power of your thrusts, your voice, your commands, the crack of your hand on my arse, your fists overflowing with my untamed tresses, your tongue lapping at the sweat in the small of my back, the tangle of our gleaming limbs, the symphony of our ragged breaths, the sight of your cock emerging slick from my newly-fucked cunt, and your come, your come… everywhere.

In those moments, I wanted it all; I wanted you there, to join us, to feed my darkest, clandestine desires. I wanted you there, I want you here and now, because the mere thought of you incites my desire, intensifies my pleasure, overwhelms me, mind, body and soul.

How did you phrase it last night when we spoke?

“I am excited at the prospect of being your partner in crime. I enjoy fantasising about being a participant, even a fulcrum, in your exploration of your baser, more decadent, perhaps hitherto secret, desires.”

Yes, yes. This wanton temptress yearned for you in those moments as that co-conspirator, accomplice and pivot. As her pivot. As my fulcrum.

But I have to admit that the very thing I longed for most in those moments was your focus, your selfishness, your dominance, your need to pry me away from men who were nothing more than proxies, your stand-ins, your need to wrench me from their voracious attentions to seize me as your own, to tenderly wash away their trace and fuck me, make love to me, to charge me with your sensual and carnal yearnings, to fill me with your uncut cock, with your lifeblood, with your seed, to imbue my skin with your scent, my lips and tongue with your flavour.

I wanted you to take all that was forbidden to them.

My naked cunt. My virginal hole. The bare truth of my passion. The erotic duality you alone inspire.

I wanted you to possess me completely, utterly. I wanted you to destroy me and piece me back together. I yearned for you and you alone to possess that untouched piece of me, to indelibly imprint yourself in my flesh, in my body’s memory.

I still do.

But this you know, all too well.

Now… Tell me. Does this please you? Does this knowledge leave you craving to make me your lover, your cock whore again, to reclaim me and mark me as yours once more? Does my confession leave you aching to give yourself to me?

Lead me away from the crowd, from their prying eyes.

Then take me. Possess me. On the tiles. On the chill of the bathroom floor.

Bring your hands to my knees. Spread me open. Spread me shamelessly wide. Expose it all.

The ebony netting encasing my slender thighs. The lattice framing the nakedly wanton sex beneath. The succulence of the lips pouting and longing for your mouth between the diamond breaks in the weave.

And the petite and inviting tear at the very centre, in the sodden gusset already corrupted by own teasing fingers, the one now hovering above the entrance to my ravenous cunt, the one calling for your hands, begging for your fingers, waiting patiently for you to rend and rip and shred the mesh to easy pieces before you wrap my legs around your waist and slide your hard, thick cock inside me to the breathless, clutching hilt, without warning, without ceremony, only desire, this consuming desire, this desperate need to fuse our trembling flesh and surrender absolutely to temptation.

I need your mouth.

I need your mouth on every inch of my shivering skin, on the rosy peaks of my breasts, on the delicate hollow of my hips.

I need your mouth on my cunt.

I need you to kiss me, lick me, devour me with ravenous abandon until I come – hot and hard – on your tongue.

And once your lips and beard are sodden with my lust, I need you to slide your naked cock deep inside my secret flesh. I need you to take and fuck and own this dripping sex until I moan and whimper, until I curse and invoke the almighty, until I scream over and again your name, until you fear the thrusts of the untamed animal possessing his prey might tear her shreds.

I need your mouth; I need you. I need it all so desperately I can barely think or breathe or live.

It is her smile that invites him.

It is the slight curve of her sensuous mouth, almost sweet and unassuming at first. It is the way it drifts up to her eyes, delicately creasing their corners, betraying her intensifying desire. It is the way it both illuminates and clouds her face as her gaze travels approvingly the length of his strong, lean body, as it finally recognises the hunger of his own need.

Yes, it is her smile.

And then slowly, just as softly, it is the parting of her thighs, the gleam of the sheer nylon under the violence of fluorescence, the heat and the wetness and the pungency of the lust he can sense even now dripping from her sex as he sits quietly on the opposite side of the boardroom, his cock thickening and hardening and leaking, out of sight and underneath the oversized mahogany table, at the vision of his fingers shredding with practiced ease the damp gusset of the pantyhose in preparation of her violation.

Yes, it is her smile that he meets once more as the temptress taunts him over her shoulder, her buttocks grinding into his shaft, silently challenging him to take her then and there on every surface of the now emptied office. It is her wanton smile that he kisses roughly off her lips once he turns her slight frame to face him, as he pushes up the trailing hem of her skirt to place his cock between the cunt lips pouting with lascivious greed through the ragged opening, before plunging himself selfishly into her clutching velvet depths in one slick, throbbing, measured stroke.

Yes. It is her smile, the one now completely overtaken by the ecstasy etched on her face, the pink, lustrous mouth grasping for his name and for breath, the fine hands clawing at the brick wall as he fucks her with hard and decisive thrusts from behind, as possesses her tight little cunt for the third time that night, metres from the bustling crowd in the shadows of the city alleyway.

I think of you.

I think of you and crave the warmth of your fingers trailing across the coolness of my skin, my body yearning to draw deep into my bones your heat, to have you wind yourself about me, your strong arms around me as we slide together gently into the shadows and the night, into dreams, into sleep.

I think of you and your teasing caress, the one that cruelly stops short of touching my aching sex, the one that merely toys with the periphery of this ivory lace as my thighs are splayed wide before you and my arousal soaks the filigree pressed tight into the scarlet smoothness of my throbbing clitoris and these plump lips.

I think of you and my heartbeat quickens, my cunt throbs at the memory of your dominance, the way you took hold and seized me, the way you carried me to the table like a rag doll made expressly for your carnal bidding, pressing your hand into the small of my back as I lowered my naked breasts and left cheek to rest upon the gleaming mahogany, my body trembling, mind racing, the anticipation prickling your skin, our breath, hot and raspy, one moment in synch, in the other out of kilter, and the rush of air that grazed the curve of my flank once you finally raised your hand, the hand that hovered suddenly with unaccustomed patience, the hand plotting in mid-air the first sweet point of contact, the hand ready and hungry to reprimand my defiance, the fingers and palm itching to mark my pouting buttocks, my entire body as yours with stinging strikes, with bruises and bites, with your uniquely blushing possession.

I think of you and long to feel, to feel your aroused glans straining, fighting against the confines of the inky denim, its pulsating hardness brushing the backs of my legs as you sweep aside my curls and kiss deeply the curve of my nape, your mouth sensually mapping the path from my delicate shoulders to the rosy prints on my fair skin, from the freckles adorning my hip to the intimate flesh pounding, dripping its sin, the tight honeyed succulence silently weeping its need to drench your beard, to come hotly on your lips and your tongue.

I think of you. I think of all of this. And more. But mostly, I think about our fusion, our melting and merging, the stillness of our bodies as your hard, thick cock is deep inside me, all the way inside me, as your ravenous flesh is buried to my breathless limit, so that every millimetre of my cunt can feel you and know you, can grasp and claim and devour each glorious vein and ridge and pulse and morsel of your burnished shaft as if it’s belonged there always, as if it’s an absent part of me returned and home again.

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?

“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.”

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.

These lips, they long to part but not to speak; they yearn to unseal the warmth within, to savour, worship, to devour every curve, every throbbing vein, every silken hollow, every morsel of your flesh, every pearl of cream, every drop glistening, to brush softly along the bronzed gleam of your skin, teasing, coaxing, taking you to the very edge, whispering, sighing into you nothing but desire pure and sensual, nothing but this carnal passion’s heated breath, the maddening craving words can never quite grasp and hold, the need to taste your sweetness, to feed upon your musk, drawing you in completely, drowning willingly in your scent, your libations, your come, kissing up between your thighs, licking languidly the long, muscular line to the torso sculpted and dressed in the black wiry curls these fingers ache to caress, to the hard thick cock lurching violently at the merest hint of this slippery little point, the hips, the cock reaching up, reaching out for more, for more of this rapacious tongue, for more of this scarlet kiss, for more of the hot clutching wetness you know a sign of the true hunger pulsating cruelly between my legs, the other lips plump and hungry for the merging this exquisite act inspires, the other fiery gloss soaking in blushing waves the finest of satins and laces, the most ordinary of cottons, overflowing the bounds and drenching the tops of my thighs with their want, with this cock lust, with my need for your meat, for your body beneath me, for the arms that will possess me and place me, for the hands that will assert their strength and guide me onto the naked uncut flesh impatient to impale me to the moaning hilt, for the man that will fuck me with a sensuous brutally, that will fuck me hard, that will fuck me hard into a breathtaking silence, that will fuck me hard back into the blare, that will fuck me hard until we scream, until we break.