“I want to really kiss you right now.
And yes, I knew what type of kiss he was talking about.
One of those deep, passionate kisses that makes me weak at the knees. The kind of kiss that sends electricity straight through me. The kind of kiss that makes my nipples stand erect. The kind of kiss that makes me hunger for him. My breathing goes ragged and my fingers take hold of his face. My tongue searches out his in such a panic. I’m afraid to lose him. To let go. I don’t want to fall away from the moment. He is my lifeline at this very moment as we hungrily stay connected.
There is no chance to break away and undress. Not yet. For now it’s the kiss.
The rest will come soon enough….
Friday, June 17, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
In the quiet part of the night......
I sit and think, listening to the thoughts that I allow out when I think I can cope with them. In the quiet part of the night,I wonder about the 'what if's', 'the maybes', the 'if onlys'. In this time I ponder about the rights & wrongs, justice, injustice and how if you wait long enough eventually you will see people get their just desserts, both good and bad. I also wonder about friends, loved ones past and present, a fleeting thought for some wondering if they ever give a passing thought, then I chide myself for being sentimental,, because, out of sight is out of mind is it not?
In the quiet part of the night, I think of the future, what it has in store for all of us, not just me. I think of the happiness I have found in the last few months, and it makes me smile. I realise many of us, have dreams and hopes, some as with my own are not so grounded in reality as one would hope. While it's a good thing to have an unobtainable goal or high hope..But I wonder how many get so down hearted when it's realised that it was just pie in the sky to start with. *Shrugs* I speak of none of my friends, but just in general terms.
In this quiet time, I reflect, but don't worry about things that have happened, tis past now and that's where it will stay. I try not to worry about the smaller things. I also don't take people's attitudes as an affront to me, after all it may not be me they are annoyed with. Just shrug it off and leave it be.
I also reflect on decisions that I need to make and they will come soon, but only when I am good n ready and not before. I have to deem when I think the time is right to do them, no one else can decide that for me..
But mostly it's just time, time for me.....
In the quiet part of the night, I think of the future, what it has in store for all of us, not just me. I think of the happiness I have found in the last few months, and it makes me smile. I realise many of us, have dreams and hopes, some as with my own are not so grounded in reality as one would hope. While it's a good thing to have an unobtainable goal or high hope..But I wonder how many get so down hearted when it's realised that it was just pie in the sky to start with. *Shrugs* I speak of none of my friends, but just in general terms.
In this quiet time, I reflect, but don't worry about things that have happened, tis past now and that's where it will stay. I try not to worry about the smaller things. I also don't take people's attitudes as an affront to me, after all it may not be me they are annoyed with. Just shrug it off and leave it be.
I also reflect on decisions that I need to make and they will come soon, but only when I am good n ready and not before. I have to deem when I think the time is right to do them, no one else can decide that for me..
But mostly it's just time, time for me.....
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Collar....
It's fastened about my neck. Black leather. Wide and soft yet unyielding. When I tip my head back I can feel the buckle there and it gives me a shiver of delight. The wide strap attached sits against my spine and my wrists are bound. If I relax them, it pulls on the collar so I must hold myself erect. This is different because I must now force myself to keep my muscles tight. This raises my normal level of docility when I have a collar on. This is a new state of being.
I am aware of being there, aware of the disconnect. I can see myself in your eyes now. Hair loose about my shoulders and arms, I can feel it against my back. I am flushed and wanton. There is no disguising what I am, what I want.
I am there displayed for your gaze. Bound for your pleasure. Kneeling in submission and obeisance. The things I am when I'm not your toy fall away. All I want, all I need is to please you, to be used and owned. Later I'll think this over and it will make me uncomfortable, but not enough to change, not enough to stop the craving to feel it again.
Then your weight is on me, pressing against me. My nipples are abraded against the rug beneath me. My thighs are tightly together and you grunt each time you thrust into me. I can't move back against you. I can only writhe and moan. It won't be long before I begin to beg you.
"pleasepleasepleaseplease..." it's like a whispered mantra, a spell and it hangs in the air around us, mingling with the scent of sex.
I am aware of being there, aware of the disconnect. I can see myself in your eyes now. Hair loose about my shoulders and arms, I can feel it against my back. I am flushed and wanton. There is no disguising what I am, what I want.
I am there displayed for your gaze. Bound for your pleasure. Kneeling in submission and obeisance. The things I am when I'm not your toy fall away. All I want, all I need is to please you, to be used and owned. Later I'll think this over and it will make me uncomfortable, but not enough to change, not enough to stop the craving to feel it again.
Then your weight is on me, pressing against me. My nipples are abraded against the rug beneath me. My thighs are tightly together and you grunt each time you thrust into me. I can't move back against you. I can only writhe and moan. It won't be long before I begin to beg you.
"pleasepleasepleaseplease..." it's like a whispered mantra, a spell and it hangs in the air around us, mingling with the scent of sex.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
This is not.....
I never saw myself in my own fantasies; I couldn't bear it. I didn't see myself as someone who ought to be in those situations. When I made myself come, it was always to faceless men and women in whatever roles I wanted them to be in, saying and doing the things I wanted to say and do but never felt like I could pull off with confidence. Maybe I didn't really want to; I had no one in my life whom I craved to be naked with behind my eyelids at night.
Then you, the dark horse in the running, rode up, and everything finally became possible. Yet, while I love you, this is not a love letter.
This is an I-want-to-fuck-you letter.
Past experiences have taught me patience, how to sweetly torture myself while waiting for the right moment. I want you. This is why, when we spend time together, my fingers are knotted on the tabletop and my ankles are locked.
This is not a love letter. This is a confession.
You turn me on effortlessly. My mind swims with thoughts of your head between my legs and me coming against your tongue while your fingers are buried inside me, locking me to you. My mouth is dry, my panties wet. I can't concentrate on anything but how badly I want you.
This is how I get through the days until I see you again. I picture all the scenarios that will unfold once you know how I feel and feel the same way. We'll do anything, I'll do anything you want. I can see us going further than we ever planned or thought possible, and being so fucking glad we finally did.
You're with me everywhere I go. I fantasize about how your skin will feel against mine. I can hear my own screams in my head. I walk around with my body buzzing and my head foggy. The anticipation—the need—is both killing me and changing my life.
This isn't a love letter. This is a success story.
I respect you. You are a person who deserves what I have to give, and I will give it to you. This isn't a love letter. This is a promise.
I want to enthrall you. I crave you. I want your soft, choked moans in my ear, your hot breath against my neck. I want to hear your unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy. I picture us afterward, our flushed faces resting against the pillows, smiling wordlessly at each other like we both know some amazing secret, and it makes me ache. This is not a love letter. When you kiss me, you'll find out just what this is.
Then you, the dark horse in the running, rode up, and everything finally became possible. Yet, while I love you, this is not a love letter.
This is an I-want-to-fuck-you letter.
Past experiences have taught me patience, how to sweetly torture myself while waiting for the right moment. I want you. This is why, when we spend time together, my fingers are knotted on the tabletop and my ankles are locked.
This is not a love letter. This is a confession.
You turn me on effortlessly. My mind swims with thoughts of your head between my legs and me coming against your tongue while your fingers are buried inside me, locking me to you. My mouth is dry, my panties wet. I can't concentrate on anything but how badly I want you.
This is how I get through the days until I see you again. I picture all the scenarios that will unfold once you know how I feel and feel the same way. We'll do anything, I'll do anything you want. I can see us going further than we ever planned or thought possible, and being so fucking glad we finally did.
You're with me everywhere I go. I fantasize about how your skin will feel against mine. I can hear my own screams in my head. I walk around with my body buzzing and my head foggy. The anticipation—the need—is both killing me and changing my life.
This isn't a love letter. This is a success story.
I respect you. You are a person who deserves what I have to give, and I will give it to you. This isn't a love letter. This is a promise.
I want to enthrall you. I crave you. I want your soft, choked moans in my ear, your hot breath against my neck. I want to hear your unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy. I picture us afterward, our flushed faces resting against the pillows, smiling wordlessly at each other like we both know some amazing secret, and it makes me ache. This is not a love letter. When you kiss me, you'll find out just what this is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)