With one hand around her hip and the other travelling the length of her delicate back, he eases her down, his head crooked to the left, affording his gaze the opportunity to drink in the sight of her bare breasts framed by the black shrug and the crimson peaks instantly hardened as they make contact with the cool gleam of the wood.

But just as his fingertips leave the base of her spine, brushing the crevice dividing the cheeks he aches to grasp, kiss and taste, he stops, suspends his touch and the maddeningly measured caresses, drawing back and away.

He retreats to pander completely to the voyeur inside him, to commit to memory the vision of the woman he has desired from a painful distance for an age, to watch her body’s rise and fall, to listen to her breath – short, sharp, on the verge of tortured – to listen and watch and deeply inhale the scent of her bloom, the body tamed and yearning and waiting, waiting for the moment he will part the slender thighs pressed tight and begin to finger the web of netting nestled against her smooth, dripping sex, waiting for the moment he rends that mesh without ceremony, overtaken at last by the urgency of his hunger and need to reunite their flesh, the need to bury his naked uncut glans into her cunt so deep from behind his cockhead kisses her womb, his balls fusing themselves to her plump, throbbing clitoris, so deep she will cry out, invoke the almighty, whimper his name and her pleas, so deep she will be possessed once again, reclaimed rightly as his, taken back at long last from another, taking her back to every moment, every whisper and groan, every utterance and devouring kiss, every bond, every bind, every decisive thrust and perfecting stroke, every minute they have fucked like animals in heat, every hour they sensually attended to their love in the dark, every glide of his shaft, coated with her glistening come, every clutch of her cunt, dreading the loss of his lust, every drop of his scorched rain, painting her skin, every surge of his come inside her, inside her, deep, deep inside in the place where it belongs.

The days, the weeks have faded away and yet the visions that rush past my eyes, the sensations that assault then course through my body take me back as if it was only yesterday.

So overwhelmed, so seized by this torrent, I can barely form an utterance with either lips or pen. And even in this rare moment when the words have chosen to grace me with their presence, I am at a loss; I am dumbstruck, unable to fix upon a point, a look, a stroke, a caress, a thrust, a soft swell, a detail, a beginning.

Where do I begin? Where do I begin?

Do I begin with that night, with the morning after, with the season and the oppressive heat that boiled mercury, blistered bitumen, melted bricks and mortar, with the heat that radiated through the day and long after the sunset, the heat that prickled my newly bathed and perfumed skin, my once fair flesh golden and gleaming as I impatiently waited for you to weave your way through the peak-hour traffic?

With your knock on my door, with the moment you crossed the threshold, with your grin, my smile, our momentary shyness, with our first kiss, deep, devouring, urgent, with the way our hungry lips and tongues immediately erased the miles that had kept us apart for an aeon, with the change in erotic tempo as I stopped to recover my sight, my reach, my breath, this gaze meeting yours, wandering tenderly over your face, these fingers sensually sliding up the curve of your neck, finding their home in your nape, my lips softly brushing the peaks of your mouth, this silken tongue tracing its shape, your hands possessing my hips, urging me into the pulsation of your thickening and hardening flesh?

With your fingers teasing the zip of my dress, the metal teeth groaning in synch with the dirty sax oozing out of the speakers, the straps somehow gliding off my shoulders of their own will and accord, with the aching slowness you edged the bodice over the pert breasts sheathed in diaphanous lace, your tips burning a trail on the ebony silk, on my shivering body, your hands drawing the fabric down, down, down over the taunt line of my belly, easing it over my rocking hips, over the filigree bound tight around me, past the lean, silky legs raised up stiletto high?

With my own hands teasing and tugging at your constricting clothing, with my naked breasts pressed into the smoothness of your chest, my lips gently suckling your nipple, your knees buckling violently in response, the lightest of kisses, the daintiest of licks finding the glistening pearl nestling in your cockhead, my body bowed in worship, in benediction, my wet mouth enveloping your glans as your hands travel the length of my spine, as your questing fingers prise apart the luscious curves at the end of my feminine line?

With the moment I break away, leaving you lonely and yearning again, walking the path to the bedroom glowing in the lamp light beyond, with the way I meet your gaze over my shoulder, with my lingering form in the doorway as I register your desiring expression, the catch of your breath, the groan from low in your throat, with my position in front of the mirrored wall as I stand waiting for you once more?

With the reflection of our naked bodies, the contrast of your scarlet shaft pressed into my creamy thigh, your arm about my waist, the gentle strength of your hand as you slip in one digit then two then more, as you finger me, as you finger my hot velvet cunt, as my own knees weaken, the wetness dripping, flowing, my sweetness cupped in your palm, the sweat on your brow, the lone bead gliding between my breasts, my head on your shoulder, my body given over, abandoned to your touch, my body intoxicated with pleasure, the first orgasm screaming up through my bones, my gasp, my moan, these lips begging, pleading to be taken, to be fucked, to have you, to have you fuck me, to have you inside me? 

With the hour, the minute, the second you finally, finally lay me down, spread me wide, cleave open the pouting lips of my cunt, your glans gleaming with the honey you will indulgently lap later that night, your shaft nudging then plunging to the hilt, to the hilt, to the clutching hilt, no warning, no ceremony only desire, desire, a desire quickly morphed into need, the need to fill me, to feel me, embracing and milking, devouring, devouring you, from the inside, from the inside, my back arching off the now sodden and rumpled cotton sheeting, these arms grasping for earth, your pounding thrusts delivering your force, your weight, your possession, your cock emerging slick and triumphant, your cock buried in so deep neither one of us can think or speak, your cock, your thrusts, my screams ringing into the summer night’s silence, your cock, your thrusts, my screams, your dominance, your passion, your command speaking with precision to my trembling submission?

Where do I begin? Is this where I begin? Do I begin with you? Or do I begin at another beginning?

Do I begin with him?

Do I begin with the other you, with the one, with the man who has haunted this woman, this desire, these pages for what feels like an age? Do I begin with the revelations that should be locked and hidden away?

Do I begin with the fact he invaded me long before you arrived, with the ache in my heart, with the longing in my flesh, with the pain inflicted by his silence and disappearance, the pain I selfishly needed you to comfort and erase?

Do I begin with his spectre, looming, lurking in the corner, the voyeur deliberately conjured to bare witness, to taste the sour bile rising up in his throat, to feel the raw desire and bitter jealousy twisting his guts in a knot as you experience and savour and take me in every way he has always wanted and more, as you slide into me with a groan, as you possess me like a beast, as the walls absorb the sound of your flesh slapping hard from behind, as your sweat pools in my back, your hands a vice on this flesh, fucking me with a passionate brutality that will surely drive him from my soul, from this room at long last?

Do I begin with my hands clasped over my mouth in fear of releasing his name, my lids shut tight, shrouding everything but the visions within me, wanting you, wanting him, wanting him to be you, each deep thrust a hope, each angry plunge an exorcism, a purging of guilt, of jealousy, of obsessive desire running oily-hot through these veins, each blinding high, each resting low, each shuddering orgasm somehow bringing me closer to you both?

Do I begin with your tenderness, the complexity of your caress, with our lovemaking deep in the dark dead of night, with the way my body opened itself to you as I thought of him, as I needed and imagined him beneath my slight form, with the way I straddled your thighs, my delicate fingers wound around his uncut cock, my cunt hovering, my hips descending, this intimate flesh engulfing your heat, taking you to the place where you rightly belong, our bodies distilled to shadows, to sensate silhouettes, my heart reduced to a beating, adoring ache, our sensual rhythm, our mutual pleasure, our sensual rhythm transporting me across the ether, across the air and the lands and the seas vast between us, our sensual rhythm finally delivering me to you and you to me? 

Do I begin with this deluge, with this confusion, with this seemingly incoherent muddle of words, with the salty tears, with the sobs now breaking as I sit here and type, as I sit here confessing it all?

Where do I begin? Where do I begin?

Where do I begin when so much of this feels like the end?

Do you recall the sound of my pleasure, my breath and my voice as I come? Do you remember the way I exhale your name as I tease my clitoris, as I finger my cunt? Do you recollect the ragged whispers, the moans, my half-spoken pleas, as your hands take hold of my hips, as you drive your burnished glans into my depths, as your kiss finds my lips, as you fuck me, possess me with a sweet savagery that leaves me captivated, addicted, obsessed?

Do you remember? Do you recall?

They were the very sounds that filled this room as I touched myself and thought of you, as time stopped and space closed itself in, as my body arched off the chair, as my orgasm crashed over me, as the air was overwhelmed with the scent of sex and the cry of my passion, as my want and desire and need for you clawed through the pretence, crawled up through my core, rose up through this flesh, returning to haunt me, to taunt this woman once again.

I long for you, I long to see you, right here, right now, right at this very moment, I long to see you stripped bare, your sartorial elegance reduced to a pile on the parquetry, your deep dark eyes on mine, your skin glowing, your imposing nakedness glistening, the low light dancing off the dark curls shadowing your body as you stand before me, as you touch yourself, as you stroke yourself for me, your muscular legs framing, your hips swaying, your forearm taut as you control, as you seduce the burnished glans in your fist.

Would you do that for me? Would you stroke your cock for me?

Would you allow me to watch you? Would you allow this exhibitionist turned voyeur to sit in that armchair in the corner of my room clad in nothing but the black suspenders and stockings that dig deliciously into my lily white skin? Would you permit me to watch you stroke your throbbing shaft, your fingers easing back the foreskin, your thumb circling your oozing cockhead, your hand cupping your laden balls? Would you let me watch you, my sapphire gaze heavy with desire, skimming over your body, committing to memory every detail, my ears drowning in the sound of your breath, your voice, your affirmations, your groans as your take yourself to the edge? Would you let me watch you as I tease my own flesh, this body shivering, aching as I sink two fingers into my slick cunt, as I circle the plumpness of my clitoris, as I tease the rosy peaks of my fair breasts? Would you allow me to watch you, to watch you stroke yourself before I close the space between us, before my delicate hand pushes yours aside to take over, before my fingers are drenched in your heat, in your scent? Would you stroke yourself for me, erupting loudly, violently only once I can bear the torture no longer, once I plead for you to come, once I beg for your come, your seed raining down upon my breasts, my belly, my thighs, running down the hungry lips of my mouth, the swollen lips of my cunt?

Would you do that for me? Would you stroke your cock for me? Would you show me the way to please you, to indulge the man, to pleasure his body, to sate your lustful passions with my hands, my lips, my tongue, my most intimate flesh, to take you to that brink of exhaustion and then revive you, over and over and over again?

Lover, would you do that for me? Would you show yourself to me? Lover, would you show me the way?

It is only once he groans in pleasured anguish, once his hips buck to feed his thick hard flesh ever deeper, once he gasps and unconsciously wonders out loud if he’ll ever feel my sweet cunt again does my mouth stop its lustful assault, my tongue raking along the soft skin of his shaft one final time to scoop up the pearl nestled in his head, before I straddle his thighs and bear my slight body down to give him the blistering heat of my slick needy sex.

Even though my fiery arousal is soaking the scarlet lace covering my modesty, darkening the fabric nestled between my legs, filling the room with my uniquely pungent scent, he wants more, he needs more.

He needs me wetter than I’ve ever been before, he needs to see my glisten drenching the delicate filigree, scorching the skin of my smoothly shaven mound as the dampness rises up towards the ebony bow perched innocently on the boundary up high. He needs to see it, to smell it, to feel it dripping its trail on my inner thighs, pooling on my bed, marking the crisp, white sheeting for hours, for days to come.

He needs it, his voice tells me between a growl and a hiss, his throbbing scarlet hardness betraying his own lascivious hunger as he spreads my legs out wide, his hands following the stocking covered line, momentarily hovering, teasing, taunting with me with the promise of his touch, his hands finally finding landfall again as they caress then take their sweet hold, one up the side of my neck to wind through the curls at my nape, the other clutching at my sex like possessor and invader, dextrous fingers at long last edging the fine weave to reveal the gleaming ruby of my lips, of the cunt longing to wrap itself around his leaking cock.

And just as I think he’ll give in to my desire as well as his own, just when I believe my throaty pleas and moans will see him acquiesce, he releases the fabric to devour me, suckle on me through the flooded lace, to slide his shaft along the slippery boundary, to press his cockhead into me so hard for a moment I wonder if he will shred, tear, break through the cruel little barrier to sheath his cock with me, to meet and fuck and have my greedy velvet heat.

He grunts his approval as she spreads herself disgracefully wide open, her long lean legs hooking themselves over his muscular thighs, his cock, thicker and harder than she could have ever conceived now running along the soft strip of dark curls on the pillowy mound, now teasing her impossibly pink, smooth lips, now gliding through the velvet folds to the clitoris swollen, aching, calling, to the cunt hot and hungry and beckoning, to the cunt bright and plump and glistening, coating his throbbing shaft in her fire, in her juices before he selfishly, deliciously fills her to the brim, before he overpowers, before fucks her hard, before he takes her tight little cunt as his.

The slender, delicate fingers belie her strength and lascivious greed, looping, twining around his thick, eager shaft, stroking, stroking, oh so slowly stroking his pulsing, throbbing uncut meat, pressing his now streaming cockhead into the smooth, full, beckoning lips, guiding, nudging his hardness past that maddening, mouth-watering point of resistance, pushing him, thrusting him, taking him in, taking him all the way in, in, in, into the deep, clutching moistness of her hot honeyed little cunt.

I want your cock.

I want it as no other, hunger for it as never before.

I want your cock.

I want to rouse it from its slumber, tease it to hard, thick, glistening life. I want to feel it pulsing in my hand, in my mouth, in my cunt, in the tightness of my rosebud.

I want your cock.

I want to rouge my lips blood, shiny red and stain your shaft with my sultry kiss. I want to open the hot, wet tunnel between these lips, sliding you in, gliding you down, tasting, devouring the very essence of man.

I want your cock.

I want the cock of the gentleman seasoned and contained, the cock of the teenage boy on the very edge of his self-control. I want to bury your uncut meat so deep inside me your body growls and soars, your searing cream spilling forth urgently, violently to mark my soft fair skin, my bright clutching walls.

I want your cock.

I want it all to myself, selfishly taking and feasting on the flesh and the come and the man yearned for by so many. I want to please and pleasure it, charm and beguile it, captivate it, claim it as my very own.

I want your cock.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Your cock is all I want.

In that moment, she loses herself completely.

In that moment when his seductive body finally kisses her supple flesh, when his hands sensually travel along the curve of her hips, the taut line of her abdomen, when his lips and tongue circle the tender swell of her breasts, rousing the pale halos into aching peaks, when his mouth urgently devours her glistening sex, taking her to the very edge and back again, when his fingers mercilessly tease the rosebud with promises maddening, when his hard cock slowly invades her sweet, enveloping tightness, when his pulsing meat is buried so deep he cries out her name, when his molten gaze fixes, melts into the blue, she free falls into the abyss, drowning in its primal darkness, basking in its blinding light, floating on the quotidian jetsam at long last a faint and distant memory.