Our bodies are borrowed from ourselves and each other. We use them to ingest the world, tasting lovers with hungry mouths, touching them with greedy hands. Some are more interested in devouring skin, while others would rather lie back and be taken, like ripe fruit from a basket on the kitchen counter. That is my preference. To be blind-folded and mastered by a benevolent chef...a man who knows how to present me to the world, how to hold me on his tongue, how to pair me with a fine chianti, its red rivulets singeing a path between my breasts.
You kiss my stinging lips, sore from stretching around your cock...the kind of kiss that says, “I will be here, watching -- you are mine...always.” The kind of kiss that says, “Say nothing.”
I feel a second set of unsatiated hands in my hair, gripping with want. A searching tongue slips between my lips, exploring and preparing for conquest. I can feel the vibration of his need, an inability to contain what is within. Unlike you, he does not know what will become of him. There is a hidden vulnerability. And I crave it between my teeth like a cat does a mouse.