Dusk

If I whisper my plea, if I exhale my need, if I dare to utter my longing to explore all that we crave and desire, would you come to me, would you close the distance between us, would you fuse your body to mine, would you give yourself to this moment, would you hold me in the day’s fading light?

Second Skin

When our bodies kiss, when they at long last meet, my skin is no longer hers, yours no longer his.

When we come together, when we are lost to the world but found to each other, when our passion is as one, this second skin of sweat and of fire and of glistening libations, this second skin of man and of woman, of limbs entwined, of uncontrolled pulsation, this second skin conceived of the fever, the hunger, our erotic abandon, this second skin born of the night devoured, the flesh for the taking, this second skin hard and fixed, silken and yielding, this second skin delivers the sweetest possession, the cruellest of freedoms.

Guide

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.

Impossibility

The words will not come. The body will not follow. There is only numbness in their place. There is only the contrary longing to exorcise this desire while clinging to it for dear, electrifying life. There is only the bittersweet craving for a man whose intensity and magnetism, whose complex eroticism excites, revives, terrifies. There is only the dull, aching recognition of an impossible possibility.

Trace

As they crash over her one after the other, as they roar up through the petite body flushing her fair skin and swelling her dripping cunt, as they come in quick and thunderous succession intermittently driving out the breath from her lungs, she exhales the sweet syllables of his name, longing for his liquid lust, yearning for his scorching seed, aching to be filled with the cream of his climax, needing above all else, the tangible trace of his desire.

Gloss

Before she finally takes her leave from him, she reaches into his trousers, delicately scoops a large creamy drop of his newly released passion and carefully shines her pink, upturned mouth.

And as she strolls home with the autumnal sun warming her spent and marked body, she slowly and deliberately licks the peaks of her lips savouring every last trace of his delicious gloss.

The Others

When my own darkness descends, when I can no longer make sense of my place in the world, I find comfort in the shadows of others. In the words that speak of love and loss and passion and pain. In the words that light up the screen and ink the page. In the words that tear me apart and put me back together.

Admission

In her absence, he tells her, he drifts into sleep stroking his hardening sex with her body on his mind, with her mind on his mind, with the Pandora’s Box of her soul on his mind.

And in the presence of his searing honesty, his desire clear and bright, she throbs and trembles and cries.

Caramel

Although the desire to touch verging on painful, she holds her ground, allowing her eyes to take in the perfection of his form, their lingering descent clinging to every ripple and muscle of his tall frame, to the smooth skin of his taut stomach.

Walking a little unsteadily towards him, her heat escaping in shallow breaths, she reaches out one lone delicate finger, skin finally meeting skin, cream meeting caramel, and slowly follows the trail of fuzz disappearing into the waistband of his bulging grey sweats.

Cream

She climbed into bed that night without showering, undressing slowly in the dark, retracing his path. As each discarded piece fell at her feet, the scent of him rose up to meet her, flooding nose, mind and sex with the fresh memory of their meeting.

Peeling off the minute black g-string covered in his dried creamy seed, she ran her long, delicate fingers back and forth along the renewed moistness hoping her body had retained enough of his slippery goodness for the pleasure of her midnight treat.

A Jam of Pearls

Soft and melodic, growling and intense, the melancholy voice of the beautiful wild man radiates through my body, ignites my soul, weaving, winding, tunnelling into the very heart of my passion, my yearning, my joy.

Present Tense

This is all there is. This is all that matters. His body, his words, his carnal desire.

And his hot rumbling voice pleading me to use him up while detailing the countless ways I will be his dirty little fucktoy.

Gesture of One

One simple gesture. One enticing move. One brush of his fingers across his stubbled cheek. One glide of his hand along the curve of a neck. One insistent touch from his chest to his hip. One hand resting short of his visibly throbbing sex.

One simple reaction. One inviting response. One rush of heat, one quickening pulse. One sharp breath freed from blushing parted lips. One teasing stroke of her sweet heaving breasts. One aching dewy place as she impatiently looks on.

Hunger II

Gnawing, growling, insatiable. It grips me, possesses me in the dead of night. Night after night it takes me by the hand, urging me on to that sweet release. Body spent, drained, gives out as it falls into a restless sleep.

As always it is there on the margins, in the periphery, watching and waiting to take me once again as the morning dawns.

Music Man

As he growls then whispers the lyrics, she marvels how he could so accurately read the life of a woman a world away from his own.

Smiling through her tears she doubts if any other man will ever be able to do the same from up close.

Knock

Two sharp raps. Two sharp raps on the door signal his arrival.

Two distinct raps belonging to him and him alone.

The sound of his hand on my door. The sound of his desire making its entry, marking my entry.

Command

He has given her very specific instructions. A simple list that masks an undeniable complexity.

She knows the consequence for any deviation. Straddling the red leather chair in the manner of Christine Keeler, she wonders just how long it will take him to notice.

Hearing his key in the door she shivers in anticipation of what will soon follow.

Words about words

I read your words aloud, savouring their flavour, their texture. I roll them round my mouth feeling their rhythm and pulsation. I tickle them lightly with my tongue before greedily devouring more. I open wide to be filled with them all.

Weakness

I didn’t stand a chance. I really didn’t. Once his fingers found the back of my neck I knew my resolve would disappear. Once those big, beautiful hands began their languid yet discreet caress I knew I would be his for the taking.

Just like that.

So easily done. And so damn easy.

Compulsions

The pulsation of my body, the flow of my words. 

Together again they overtake me, they wake me in the dead of night, gnawing, grabbing, demanding. Begging for the page, the pen, the cursor, the screen. Begging for skin and heat and lips and hands and hardness.

Open and ready, I surrender.