Four writers for the price of one blog
I love your face, and the way you open to be when I climb between your legs, welcoming and loving. I love the ways your eyes close as I enter you, and the smile on your face, reflecting mine as we press against each other. I love leaning in to kiss you, taste you as I fill you, and l love looking into your eyes as I lose control.
When you climb on the bed, or kneel on the floor, or bend over the chair. And you put your hands down, and look back at me over your shoulder, or lower your head to the ground… I think I go a little bit insane.
It is primal, something that predates love, all consuming. The curve of your ass, the parting of your thighs, the glisten of desire between your legs. I am at once completely helpless to it, and, as soon as I touch you, completely in control. For once I do touch you – once my hand has found your hip – nothing will stop me. One touch and all is inevitable, and we both know it, because I hear you moan and feel you shiver as both my hands take their places. All I can do at this point is growl anyway, as I revert, letting something older take my bones. I don’t need to see to find you, make our connection, enter your grip, sink into your heat.
It is stereotypical to feel, to revel, to wallow in the power of it, holding you as I push myself into you. I don’t care. I exult. From where I kneel, or stand behind you I see the beauty I feel under my hands and around my cock. The muscles of your back flex as I exhale onto you. The flesh of your ass ripples as I slap into you. I know my eyes are dilated, locked on you. You have captured me, but it is you who cannot escape. I won’t let you, now. I can’t.
I let one or both of my hands wander, marking the contours of your spine, your ribs, the small of your back. Pressing into your shoulder blades as we come together and apart. I can grip your neck with one or both hands, and I do. I can wind my fingers in your hair and turn you to look back at me, or pull your head back and make you arch so I can thrust more deeply. I do all these things and love them each for their distinct sounds and sensations. I reach my hands around, cup your breasts, find your hard nipples and pinch them, make you squirm under and around me. I lower to you, curling a hand down to your belly, to your cunt, just above where we connect. If I want, my finger finds your clit and teases, or attacks as I cover you with my body, feeling everything I am doing through your reactions. I pinch, and you squeeze me inside. I exhale hot on your neck and you moan.
If I want, I make you come, holding you locked to me as I feel you flood around me, fucking harder into you against your squeezing contractions. If I want. But then, I want that a lot. You can play at trying to get away, to pull from my grasp, but I won’t have any of it. Perhaps I will simply yank you back, reassert my claim on your hips. Perhaps I will sting you with a slap to the ass or thigh, a not so gentle reminder. For once you are done, if I want, you are all mine. I will pull you to me, or rise up above you. When I can’t see your face, I become louder, announcing myself, my intentions to you. I want to take you, and I will. The slap of our skin, wet with sweat and more, matches my grunts. I can try speaking telling you how you feel to me, what you make me want to do, but nothing coherent comes out. Besides, you know. You know very well.
And then there comes that point, that moment, inevitable since I first touched you. I slow, warring in myself, wanting to take the last step, and wanting to stay here on the edge forever. I torture myself with you, and you goad me with your body, your muscles, your voice. Words like control and power cease to have meaning. I telescope the instant into an eternity of almost. And then I fall into you. For all the forever I need.
And after, I collapse on top of you spent. Pressing you down for a moment or a minute, before curling around you, and pulling your head back for a kiss as sweet as all that has gone before.