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

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.

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.

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.

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He is here.

At last.

Waiting in the wings, on the threshold, on the verge of the utterance of those three little words in the native tongue of his darkly compelling lust, in the accented rumble that brings me to my knees and strips me bare effortlessly, completely.

But I linger out of view, sliding softly into the light only once he parts his lips to speak, to etch into the ether his arrival, to transform the biting chill of the autumnal breeze with the warmth of his breath, with his musk and his cologne, with the sensual and carnal promises that live in his touch and his kiss, in the hard and ravenous heat between his legs, in the primal need that screams on his skin, in the yearning that tempts me back to him, that arches my back, melts my sweet cunt, marks my body with his possession, his homecoming.

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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?

He reads and fingers me
like a (filthy little)
book.

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Breathless. Trembling. Wet. Aching.
Craved. Possessed. Marked.
Supple. Yielding. His.
Yours.

Fuck.

The growled utterance shatters resolutely the silence.

These four little letters, this singular word is all I need to sense the force of his desire, the complex ways in which I tempt him, here and now in the gloaming, dressed in nothing more than nylon and pearls and the heat of my own maddening craving, the pulsating ache between my fair thighs, the sex scarlet and sodden crying out for his mouth to kiss me soft and deep and long, for his tongue to enslave me, to drink down this sweet, fragrant nectar, for his thick, hard flesh to fill me, unleash me, tame me, possess and fuck my tight honeyed cunt with a sensual measure that leaves my entire body trembling and these lips whispering their hunger for more.