Telling stories, allegories, letting ourselves go

“Did you miss me, baby?”

I thought briefly about the million and one things I could or wanted to say to him when he asked me, all the little ways in which I had missed him, and all of the small ways in which I worried that things might be different or strange between us. I felt the hesitation I always feel when He returns from a trip or when I do… the small inkling that we are different people than we had been before our absence from one another. All the things that may have happened, all the words left unspoken.

“More than you could know,” I murmured. It was the truest answer I could conjure up. When I was away, learning and teaching in the neon desert, I had missed him terribly. “Did you miss me?”

“I did, Pooh.”

I peel off my clothing and stand before him in matching red and black plaid. He is amused and aroused. He loves red and black plaid. I climb onto the bed on all fours with my ass up and my back arched. My much shorter hair no longer hides my inked up shoulders.

His hands roam briefly before pushing my panties to the side and filling me with one sharp, deep thrust. I lose myself in the feel of him, and the sounds of his voice, gravelly and deep in my ear. His praises and his pleasure resonate deep within me. We are fervent and feverish. I need this. My core heats and spreads out to my skin. I feel the familiar fire in my belly early and quick. He makes me beg for the privilege. Reasserting our relationship. Reasserting that I am his and come at his pleasure. He lets me. He fucks me through my orgasm.

He talks to me through my moans and cries. He rides me hard and moans in my ear. I am wailing and praising him. How good he feels. How much I missed him. How much I missed the way he touches me. How much I need him to fill me, to mark me, to make me his again. As his climax builds, he is already working me to my second. In my haze, in my feverish little mind, my mouth keeps running and I am unaware of what I am saying. Dirty, lovely things. Baring myself to him in so many ways.

He asks if I’m going to come again. He wants me to come with him. He’s so close. Something he says, some words I can barely remember now send me over the edge for the second time. The clenching, roiling, vibrations of my body, some words that I speak make him groan from the bottom of his toes. He’s cumming, filling me  up, just the way I want. Just the way I need.

Our bodies break apart and he turns me over, onto my back. I quickly scoot my bum down the bed and wrap my legs around the back of his thighs. His hands peel my bra down and he pulls my heavy breasts out. His fingers stroke over my skin. He praises my tits: how soft and big and beautiful they are, such pretty nipples, such a sight. I blush beneath him as he admires me. We curl around one another like the fog outside the windows, curling round the city streets. I fall asleep before I know that I am tired.

Struggle Snuggles

I collapse onto the bed. Everything moves like molasses. I feel so ancient when I am so tired. My body does not want to work any more. Sleep, it cries, Sleep, please. I crawl on elbows and knees to the head of the big bed, curl around and under and against the numerous pillows that I keep.

You follow me on your knees and slide my leggings off of my hips, down my legs, pull them gently from my toes. I mumble something. Resisting every second that I have to have my eyes open. You carefully unwind my arms from around the soft mounds of fabric and I whine, a high-pitched, mewling little whine. My eyes are closed because I cannot take the harsh light any longer.

“Turn off the lights,” I whimper.

“First, your dress.”

Your hands move under the soft, flowing fabric and you tug at it until I move and comply and participate. I roll over and around, squirming, and whining the whole time. It too comes off of my head, and flies to some unknown destination.

“The lights,” I whisper. 

I Wanna Shape a Hundred Million Feelings

I’m talking. As I speak, I become more aroused. Besides feeling it in my panties, I can hear it in my voice. I’m speaking dirty talk and ideas and words and my tone is becoming lower and my voice is becoming throaty. Sultry is, maybe, the word.

I’m talking fantasy and I’m aroused. And I know you are too. And I can tell you become more so by the tone of your voice. And I wonder if you’re answering in kind because you are genuinely excited or because by myself I’m boring you. This is how I am. This is how I think sometimes.

“Baby, you’re so careful with your language, with your words. You’re always worried about whether you’re going to weird me out or upset me. Say what’s really on your mind now, let it pour out.”

He’s right. There are words I’d love to say to him. Dirty, disgusting things. Sweet, emotional things. Strange, and maybe disturbing things. In the heat of these moments, I am not really responsible for the thoughts that cross my mind and my heart. But I am responsible for keeping them close to the bone.

“Let it pour out.”

I’m not sure if you know what you’re asking. I am not sure if I let you in behind my last wall, it’s a place where you would want to be. I cannot let the gate peak open. I am an all or nothing girl, and you know this better than anyone else. If the flood is allowed, it will be a deluge that doesn’t end.

I fear what I might share with you or say to you if I did not keep such a tight lid on my mouth, on the things I think about, on the things I want. But sometimes I want to. Sometimes I do want to give you the last inch of me.

But sometimes it is the last thing that I fear.

Drown Me, You Make My Heart Beat Like the Rain

He calls me Pooh in the sweetest, most endearing tone of voice. I can’t explain the complex web of emotions it brings about in me. When coupled with his beckoning me to his mouth for sweet kisses, I can barely breathe. He cups and sucks and lathes my breasts, showering them with attention. His eyes meet mine while he does and I can do little more than pant and squirm against him. He groans against my nipple and nuzzles the pale flash.

“I could spend a whole day here, just sucking and kissing and nibbling your beautiful tits,” he mumbles into my skin. 

Follow Where Your Daddy-O’s Leading

I shower with the lights off, my eyes adjust quickly to the deep darkness and the water is hot enough to make the mirrors across from my shower steam and cloud and swirl, making my reflection nothing but a featureless specter in the night. The water beats against my back and I tilt my head back to soak my long locks till they melt against my skin, reaching past my hips. My body aches. My muscles are stiff. My skin is bruised. I can be satisfied, but never sated, and I feel the stirrings of desire rising up from my toes, climbing my thighs, beating in my chest; I can taste it on the back of my tongue. 

Torture Me (With All I’ve Wanted)

“Fuck me… hard and deep,” I murmur.

He answers me in his mother tongue and I shudder at the implication of the words, at the music he makes with his mouth, even when he’s talking dirty.

I spread my legs wide and he slides his cock deep inside of me once, all the way, until our hips nearly meet. All the way out, and all the way back in, again, again.

“Is that what you needed, baby?”