I want to give the kind of pleasure that renders someone helpless. How utterly intoxicating it is to be on the receiving end of torrential desire experienced by what you can give. Your body is magnificent. A temple, they say. Well, I am ready to pray.
Damn your eyes. They pull me in and I dive through, forgetting to come up for air. They are a perfect companion to the bronze of your skin and the dark tumble of your hair. I love your mouth. Warm watercolor plum breaking into a dazzling, firework display also known as your smile. And your nose; haughty and bold, poised to look down on somebody.
And your neck. Taut. Angular. Muscular. Smooth and oh so serious. I love your ears. Seashells moulded incidentally, made beautiful deliberately. A cavern of listenings. And your breasts, and how they suspend, ripe, full-nippled and weighted upon my chest, as you lay upon me. Even the most indifferent breast will respond to the calling and the graze of an encircling thumb.
I love your legs, not silly adolescent limbs, but a real woman’s legs that have walked on the resistant sands of time.
Then I look at your hands. The elegant fan of your fingers that wield coffee-painted claws; the veins of the strength they hold as you hold, me. To have your palms sweep through the thick of my hair, grip, clench and tug. To have your fingers comb through the untamed wild of my locks.
Let your soles meet my tongue, and bring your toes between my lips. Tingle, and shudder and pull away half-reluctantly. I will paint your shoulder blades with my mouth and injure my tongue in the sharp concave of your clavicle. Shelter me in the periphery of your inner thighs. My eyelashes brushing only the pinnacle of your convex mound.
I linger at the curve of your belly. An orbit of warm desire. An arc of wanting. My palms journey along the median of your womanly sphere, and continue along the circumference of your ass. There, I love the contrast between the pale white of your tender skin and the red of a palm print from where I’ve spanked you. It makes me wet, makes me hard, makes me soft-wet-collapsing, and sets off rocket flares inside my pants.
I delight in the plateau of your lower back; a plain of possibilities. Sweat beads dot the horizon as the Tropic of Capricorn presents itself upon the descent into your within. I love every fold and crease and line of your sex. Pinkspeachesbrowns
and one single slick of red.
I slip in between, and out from the alternates of sweat and moisture; the supple soft folds of skin concealing the heart of all desire. I kiss the spread of your forehead; the cups that are your palms. I kiss the scorch that is your gaze. I kiss the tendril of your lust.
Let me stay inside you. Move nothing. Not a muscle. Not a moment. There is no shame in our stillness.