Bring me your hands.
And the stories they ache to write upon my skin.

Use anything at hand. Use everything that catches your eye and incites your carnal imagination.

Your commanding grip.

The decadent silk strip nestled against your chest, whose arrowhead invariably directs my gaze to the virile need hardening between your legs.

The pungent leather that bears your scent plus mine. The alluring danger of its glistening clasp.

The cashmere that moments ago clung to the soft slope of my shoulder and kissed the delicate swell of each creamy breast.

Use it all to bind me, to shroud my sight, to plunge me into your dark hunger.

Then use me.

Take and possess every inch of skin, every morsel of flesh, every moan and tremble, every ravenous hole and dripping slit you have craved to fill and ravage and mark.

Lover, use me and make me yours.

When I imagine you here, I can almost feel your lips tasting the indigo sunset straight from my bare skin.

I can almost feel your hand replacing mine between these thighs. I can almost feel your thumbs circling the yielding softness above the stocking tops.

I can almost feel your finger tracing my jawline with a subtlety that leaves me struggling for breath, before you tilt lightly my chin to feed the hunger blistering my tongue with your kiss and your burnished flesh.

I can almost feel your shaft thicken and harden in my delicate palm, just as I can almost hear your body groan the syllables of my name.

I can almost feel your knees easing my legs wide apart. I can almost feel your beard marking each trembling curve and hollow with the gleaming fire from my sweet cunt.

When I sit here watching the day’s fading light, I can almost feel every stroke, every thrust of your savage need, every cry from my own body as you take me, as you fuck me with your carnal darkness.

Even at this cruel distance, I can feel your hand slipping through the belted mesh, coaxing my hips to the height of your hard and jutting flesh; I can feel your ragged breath as your fingers travel my slender back, stopping suddenly at the small to spread my cheeks shamelessly wide open, to expose to your hungry gaze the pouting, wanton cunt gleaming its need, dripping its want, forever and always, for you.

Lost and alone in the ice storm,
searching and reaching for the man,
the hands that will bring me in from the cold.

Do you search for me by day, your gaze scanning each bustling and haunting scene, your eyes hunting for a glimpse, roaming to the rhythm of the hunger coursing in your throbbing flesh and pounding veins?

Do you wake in the dead of night, your gleaming body sculpted from our monochrome dreams, yearning to find my sensual softness by your side, longing to feel my wanton desire arching back into your heat?

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.

I dream endlessly of contrasts.

Silk on skin.

Groans and sighs.

Sodden lace fused to molten flesh.

Your gleaming salt on my tongue, my pungent sweetness glossing your lips.

The ebony bands drawn tight against this fair and ravenous body as you bind my wrists behind my back with a strap of leather that bears my wanton scent.

Your hands, at once domineering and tender, sliding between the softness of thighs that silently beg to surrender, to give themselves over to you completely, that hunger for you to spread them so shamelessly wide we will fear, for the briefest moment, each of my delicate bones will shatter and break.

The violence of the scarlet of your visibly aching, burnished glans circling, tracing areola of the palest pink, marking and teasing and filling their raspberry peaks with a need that will overwhelm the space between these four, unassuming walls, that will consume the freshness of the ether with ragged breaths and sultry pleas.

Of this, I dream endlessly. And more, so much more.

Just as I dream about you.

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.