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.
between desire and disaster 
Don’t know what to say. Beautifully fucking erotic. I have to go and lie down to think about that now. Thankyou x
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Haha! Why go lie down? Stay and talk about what it made you feel/ think.
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I wanted to lie down. It made me feel hot and wet. It made me remember, remember someone and how just thinking about him and his touch would make me hold my breathe till it felt like it was going to burst out of my chest and i’d have to gasp for air. The painful urgency to have it all, all at once and yet the soft and firm longing that the moment would just stop so i could feel like that forever. Drown in the torrential desire,consume it, and it me.
It made me remember, remember thats how he made me feel what he gave me.
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Jac, I know what that’s like. I SO know. xx
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Mental exotica, no one can say it like you do. I am intrigued by this intricate web of words you seem to entrap me in – every time.
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Dear DBlossom, I wish for once you would allow yourself to be game.
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Had read some of these on Twitter and was fascinated and equally intrigued. Your writing speaks like nothing else, no song or movie or picture can. It makes me want to fall in love and feel all that, feel it just the way you wrote it.Excuse my temerity in saying this, but your writing shouldn’t be confined to a blog, it should be out there, it should breathe, it should be someplace where everyone can read it, can feel it and can experience it.
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Lovely Joanna, I am intrigued by what you say and what you describe. I am thinking seriously about what I should do with this writing. Perhaps you can share some ideas with me. Where would you like to see it? A book? What sort? And who would buy it? I am really at a loss…
xx
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I want you to come away with me.
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Allow me to love you. E-mail me? I l will look out at the sea of your body from the dockyard of love.
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once radicalized by my son and now, possibly, by you – in a very different way. well, maybe it is in the same way.
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Radicalized you say? How so?
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Gosh I love the shifts this takes Found you on twitter and am now a little in love with your writing.
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It’s a simple human emotion…..brain accepts it easily..on the other hand hate/dislike is somthing complicated.Our brain refuses to accept it easily.This is one reason we write more on love…..but agian i’ll say..it’s easy…smooth..make us feel good & has Shelf life……it fades with time if we do not take care…..
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I just saw your reply. Yes, a book would be lovely. I would read this everyday and have it kept close to me, to provide me succour when I am really low, like now. It helps not having to switch on computers to read your work. Really does.
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