Breaching the Surface

There are those moments when nothing can satiate my desire besides penetration. The blessed insertion of something, preferably fleshy, and warm, and connected to something I want and love, into my hungriest places, all of which seem to be so conveniently created to invite him in. The tantalizing build up of his hand on my thigh, especially in a a public place, or somewhere nothing can be done about it, just serve to make the release that much more sweet.

I can feel him, across the room, naked. His heat. His eyes following my curves. And my body tenses. I keep breathing in and forgetting to breathe out, my chest expanding, my lungs filling, releasing just enough to keep me from passing out. Those shallow, expectant gulps of air...my whole body reaching out for his offering.

It's a metaphorical and almost silent dance. A quiet desperation seen in the trembling of lips and fingers and shoulders. An unspoken desire that screams from the depth of the eye and the uneven sighs that barely escape, in and out.

It's hard to define or explain desire. I'm sure it's onset is different for many of us. But for me, it's a deliciously painful greed. The kind that makes the world slip away, because all I want is that which is before me. Not just some of it. All of it. Now.

But, the waiting. The waiting and the denial are almost as sweet...are they not? As long as it doesn't last too long, that is.

When I feel him slip in beside me, wrap me in his arms and pull me to him, our bodies forming one fluid machine, my breath heightens and deepens, becoming audible as my hunger begins to speak in a language only the body knows.

He kisses me, softly, holding back, because he knows how crazy it makes me. He drives me like a luxury car, smoothly and sensually...totally in control. His hands search my skin as if it explained the meaning of life in brail, gently in places, grabbing hold of me in handfuls in others, reminding me that all of this is his...not because he takes it...not even really because I give it. It is his because, like any kind of faith, it just is. His touch makes my body believe.

On our sides, his tongue searches mine for secrets and treasures, while his right hand follows the curve of my back and my plump behind. I wrap my left leg over his, exposing the core of my heat and hunger. He teases it, runs his fingers across it, but eventually, he covers it completely with his hand, probing gently at first...one finger...

And I melt, I sigh, I come completely undone. All the breathing in and holding the want as if it were a word on the tip of my tongue...the kind I can't let go...the kind that keeps me up all night looking for it. To let all of that out is like being slowly submerged in warm water...maybe something like going home. The perfection of it...that seemingly simple moment...the sort of thing that happens all the time. It still holds that power for me...when he slips his fingers inside me...when he first penetrates me.

Because when he does that...when he breaches the surface of my bodily being - he enters my soul.

It is always more than what it seems.

With him.

Masturbation Monday