So, tell me how mad I am. For the last few weeks, I start my day by writing about touches and feelings that I haven’t known in over four years. Something inside me urges me to keep writing; it tells me that if my hunger is on paper it won’t consume my every thought. For a few moments, writing helps – until I decide to become analytical and see how others write. “I’m just trying to improve my writing,” I lie to myself.
I’ve visited websites on which are stories written by others, some more talented, some less than I. I read about every lick, every kiss and every touch. My skin grows cold and wants to be warmed by large hands on me. A fire ignites in my belly and all I can think about is your hands caressing my body.
I want to curse you for waking this maddening desire, but want to worship the stirrings that form. If I could, I would not leave my bed at all; I would just close my eyes and imagine you touching me again. My hands become yours as you stroke my arms, my cheeks. My fingers are your teeth biting my nipples.
I imagine the weight of your body covering mine and feel your desire pushing against me. Why didn’t you quench my need? Was it just a bit of fun? That would have been all right. Anything that satiates me for even a short while helps. Was it the control? I wanted to loose control and allow our bodies to merge. You needed to keep control, bend me to your will.
My minds watches you pull away from my kisses. My disappointment dissipates as you begin kissing my nether region. I can still feel your mouth teasing my clit -- my glorious redemption, my welcome back into the world of the living.
I want to grab you and keep you there, feeling your hot mouth against my equally hot lips. I want to buck as you ride me, but fear to make this real. I just want to enjoy this glorious dream for one minute more.
You reorient yourself and kiss me. Normally I hate when people try to make me taste myself, but this time, I just want to lick your mouth dry. Still you tease me, in my fantasy I can’t even touch you. Your mouth, your chest, your hands are so real. How can this be nothing more than a dream?
Normally I am shy about my body until your boldness melts my timidity. Your hands run up my leg and bury themselves between my thighs. I open willingly, gratefully to you. I loose track of time and just enjoy. You pull me back to you by taking my hand. Playing your part, both of my hands are occupied.
I beg you again and still you refuse me. I know this is wrong, but how can one small mistake be made worse? My body shudders as I think about you taking both my wrists and stretching them far above my head. I want to give your control and you keep it, too well, by again denying me the feel of you inside of me.
What would you prefer? What do you want? I suggest and your only hint is “if you want”. What I want, you won’t give. I want to be ridden like an unbroken stallion. I want to make you fight to keep your seat. I want the sweat from your body to mingle with mine until that last glorious minute. I want you to control me.
As the thought surfaces, I orgasm. Leaving one wet hand below to tease myself, I put the other to my mouth. Pretending it’s is you, I roll my tongue around my fingers and realize I never reciprocated for you …