A look, a word, a touch. The switch flicked. My mind and desire taken from demure to wanton in three short beats, each gesture melting away my reticence and modesty, spreading me shamelessly wide open to our erotic game. With every sensual thought and carnal fantasy growled from your lips, my
body cries its hunger, my scarlet need drips its craving for revelation, for consummation, for my tongue on your burnished heat, for the grind of your hips, for the taste of our ravenous kiss, for your seed buried deep, for your breath as it etches pathways across this fair skin to my most licentious and sinful want.

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

I could gently glide my lips, impatiently run their peaks across your ready flesh for a thousand years and never truly know you.

You will forever be an enigma; the secrets and mysteries, the temptation my hands and tongue and mind and molten cunt hunger to grasp for the briefest of moments, to savour and remember your flavours, to etch the passions that seethe and live inside you into every sacred and gleaming place, even as this knowledge absolute is denied us.

Even as that refusal flickers across this delicate skin, binds me to your body, inspires a boundless craving few will ever touch or comprehend.

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’ve never lied.

I have never played a deceptive game about my dividing line.

It took scarcely a moment, at the most maybe two, before I knew in the pit of my stomach, in the marrow of my bones, in the wet and hungry heat screaming between my legs, there would be no fooling either one of us.

From our very beginning, from the utterance and the brilliance of the first few words growled from your lips with a ravenous possession, I knew you couldn’t – you shouldn’t – be duped into believing your seductive eroticism inspires anything but the craving for your irrational and urgent passion, the craving for the destruction of the line between my want and need.

Because with you, that line is fine.

Most days, it is nothing more than a delicate chain, a series of tantalisingly fragile links you could easily crush and destroy, even as you wind it – and me – with measure and precision around your finger, place us gently into your palm, reducing the space between your clothed form and my nakedness, between my breath and yours, between the rough kiss and the hollow of hips, between this melting softness and your raw hardness, between the woman of wanton strength and the submissive crying out to pleasure you on her knees.

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.

Cloaked in velvet shadows, bathed in dazzling light, I have little choice but to bare my soul, lay down my truth, curve, arc and unfurl this body, lead the woman to hope, to the wonder, to the sights and sounds and flavours of this life’s complexity, its pleasures, verve and intensity, its infinite sensuous mystery.

It’s nothing but a push-pull, a tug of war, a losing battle with the remembrance of this flesh.

By day, I don’t see the world that surrounds me through rose-coloured glasses.

But once I fall into the night and its darkness, once I slide slowly into my dreaming, our entwined bodies are bathed in an amethyst lustre so intense and absolute that my lips and tongue physically yearn and hunger to reach out, to taste its warmth, its richness, its flavour, all of your sensual and carnal secrets, straight from your hard and naked flesh.