I lie next to you, freshly fucked, mascara ruined, lips sore, skin touching skin, surrounded by the pages of writing that you swept off my desk, my stories, my words, such pretty words, wrapped around us like a lustful silk.
The rush of cold air biting at my nakedness as you lean away, finding the little bottle of ink that had fallen to the floor when you unbuttoned my filthy pleasure, and you coat your thumb pad in the blackest of inks before pressing it firmly against my hip bone, the concentration on your face a melody of intensity and pure sex, marking me with your fingerprint. How utterly fucking romantic, I thought, right before I remember writing this exact scene. Right before remembering that you are the man that I created with my pretty words.
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My emotionary
tells me that you're playing with my feelings that you have no intention of reeling my heart strings round your ceiling fan keeping your feelings unreaching and concealing ignorant of my heart so unyielding and pleading Bleeding Dreaming But all you want is my squealing writhing body underneath you as I break into pieces exquisitely increasing my fascination with you before you tell me that your care for me is different to all the rest so totally A blissfully bewitchingly preciseness, so beautifully executed before you pull my nipple and kiss me goodbye and take someone else out for dinner. From his perspective.
She has a kooky habit of waking up in the middle of the night, some time after I've fucked every inch of her, and getting into her unsexy knickers. So unsexy, that it's downright adorable. Not that I can call her adorable, of course, as I'm fortunate enough to witness right this minute. She is standing mostly naked, apart from those adorable little cotton knickers peppered with pink and blue polka dots, and her full lips are forming the most perfect little "O" while her big wide eyes frantically blink in the morning glare. I want to put my cock in that mouth. Badly. She's got one hand on her hip, the other in her mussed up hair, her foot tapping so angrily that her tits sway. I called her adorable. Correction. I called the fact that she wakes up to put on comfortable cotton knickers adorable. Apparently calling her adorable means that I get to watch those lips and those eyes and those breasts and that cute little arse hidden in those adorable little knickers as she tries to articulate how angry she is right now. Fucking adorable. I’m a lady. What? You can’t be surprised
despite all my utterings so sexualised on my knees looking up with my big blowjob eyes romanticised calling me slutty whilst I’m down on all fours just because my number is higher than yours Sure let’s just ignore my intellect and complexity my power, my desperately collectively nonsensically empathically bonhomie as you joke how my vagina must be a Facebook check in location folks Because I like sex with girls and I like sex with boys and you can’t fathom out how to use all my toys so you utter vile words and call me harsh names aims my shame so high in the sky that the clouds know your game but tomorrow you’ll beg me to do it again Why can’t I be both; dichotomous alignment of pleasure and passion and moral refinement. He nods towards my clothes and murmurs, “take them off”.
His voice affects me with such complete avidity that I realise I can no longer hide my fascination with this man. He has me utterly and entirely captivated and the need to please him, desire him, is immeasurable. I pull off my tattered, old, Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, my soft nipples hardening in the cold air, and slip out of my jeans and trainers before instinctively holding my hands over my breasts, the heat between my legs. He gently shakes his head, that wry smile of his flirting with my bare skin, and I slowly lower my hands, exposing myself in a way that creates a boundless fervour. The way he looks at me. Fuck, I feel like a queen. A sexy motherfucking queen. He watches as I slowly walk toward him, no longer afraid of my own nakedness, no longer afraid of how deeply I want him within me, and his eyes lazily roam from the tuft of hair between my legs, to my breasts, to my lips. I have to stand on my tiptoes to graze my teeth against his jawline, and fuck he tastes good. I can smell the beer on his breath and taste the man on his skin and when he finally pushes his lips against mine, rough and unyielding, I start to get off on the semi-drunk sensation. “Do you want it?” he says in his low, hungry voice; the rope coiled around his hand, staring me down as he attempts to control his own hitched breathing.
My nakedness and inexperience scares me but I nod as his gaze sweeps over my lips. I watch as he prowls toward me, fully clothed yet more exposed than I have ever seen him, and my need to lose myself in him, lose myself in something other than my own suffering, makes me impatient. He asks for my wrists and as I hand myself over to his cravings his smile warms the extremes of my cold heart like the scorch of a distant summer and I lean towards his chest as my tongue sweeps out, just barely touching his skin, and he tastes like his demons wrapped around him when he was a boy and never let go. The rope binds me as he pulls me down to the floor and I can feel the throbbing of his heart between us – or is it mine? I can’t tell anymore, I have no idea where he ends and I begin. I’m daydreaming about hands again.
I’m daydreaming about how yours are strong and mine are so small and how yours fit charmingly around my throat whilst mine claw at your back and I gasp … fuck me. And I’m daydreaming about your steadiness and my trembling and about how we both create universes with just our hands and our lips and our teeth. I’m daydreaming about how my hands would like to find yours in the dark and rest in its spaces under your ocean of blankets like an empty room waiting to be filled. One lick, two lick, three lick
four? Or was it five? Kisses down my thighs Pure lust in my eyes Hands everywhere Tickling in my underwear Kisses on my neck It all started with just a peck Feelings so intense with pleasure Too many orgasms to measure Smiles One smile, two smile, three smile four? Or was it more? She pins me down with lascivious intent
A smile before she savours my thighs Delights in my sighs My sexed up scent gets her high Mounds of flesh Soft breasts Tender tongue Lashing like whips until I’m writhing from the hip until I’m grasping her hair and I become unequipped The last vestiges of trembling ecstasy wiped from her lustful smile |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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