Flashflood

My heart rate rises as his voice in my ear, intimate and knowing, sparkles along my nerves. My breath shortens to oxygen starved gasps as he tempts me to paths I've never taken, these are things I've never admitted to anyone, to him, to myself. And his voice entices me, coaxes and coerces and leads me.

My blood thunders down channels that five minutes before were quiet, unrecognized. And still his voice carries me on.

With my eyes closed I lean back to feel his palms and fingers explore my body, his skin warm on mine, thighs hard between mine, tongue and teeth possessing lips and throat and nipples, and I am wet to welcome him deep into me.

I can feel him, hands sliding along my back and shoulders, up into my hair, fists holding my hair and pulling my head back as his lips move from my mouth to my neck, tasting my racing pulse, the fire he ignites in my blood, in my flesh. I can feel his urgency, pushing against me, into me, filling me with him, with his heat. I can feel his lips open on my nipple, teeth pulling and teasing. His hands on my body molding me to him. His voice low in my ear making me shiver.

His voice is relentless, merciless, driving me toward his goals, his possession, exploration, ownership of every inch of me from the inside out. Every inch of skin, every gasped response, every nerve vibrating to his whisper. I follow his growled commands, gladly parting thighs wider, opening mouth for his exploration, lifting my hips for him to better take me.

More than anything I want that possession, his imprint on me, marked and taken and owned by this sweet magnificent man who knows my secrets and my desires and swims through those dark waters with me, for me.

In this moment we are both aware that he can gain anything from me he wishes, I am remade in his voice, his desire, his demand.

The cliff edge calls in his voice, the delicious freefall of release, freedom and flight the paradox of his control.

Lightheaded and breathless, I am weak with wanting his touch. I want his hands, his mouth, his body on me, inside me, making me his to command, his to keep.

Again he builds me toward spinning orgasm, his voice a constant stream pushing me, filling me with his wants and his words. Gladly I drown in him. And want him to come with me. "I'm not ready, but you are," he says, and that fast I'm lost again in sensation, darkness closing over my head and bright colours starburst behind my eyelids. Inarticulate, I cry out again, and he is ready.

My desire is to explore him, hands and mouth knowing his details, tactile imprint on every surface of myself. I want to feel his heartbeat under my ear as I lay my head on his chest. I want to feel his skin warm under my hands, against my body as I slide along him, feeling him rise to meet me. I want to taste him, learning him with my lips and tongue as I have learned him with hands and skin, looking into his eyes as I stroke and caress. I want to explore him completely as he has learned me. His moaned reply tells me he enjoys it as much as I do.

His voice is sensual and wicked in my ear as I feel him finally take the possession he wants, taking me to a place inarticulate and overwhelming. Driving harder and faster, our breathing quickens, becomes synchronized as we come closer to that edge, sensation filling us and sweeping us over past control.

His voice continues to fill me, even as I can no longer speak, and I feel his ownership of me complete, his control pushing me over the cliff as I listen to his whispers, harsh and soft and coaxing. I feel him against me, in me, around me, becoming the only reality I can be aware of, want to be aware of, fulfilling every want I have ever had or could imagine.

Finally he is as ready as I have been again and again, a new note of urgency in his voice, the rush of words quickening even as my heartbeats quicken to this new tone. Barely able to breathe with the need I feel, every part of me rises to his voice, his desire, his command of me to be entirely his.

But then the circuit is broken and our connection lost.

I return the phone to its cradle, my phantom lover to his everyday world and my desire to the box it lives in until he rings again.