I’m Not Ready…

I’m not ready, to end this freaky affair, I’m not ready, to go nowhere… – Keith Sweat, “I’m Not Ready.”

How does something end without even beginning?

How do you tell “our story”? How will you say how you met me and where we met? How we only made love three times? Three times.

The first time, the first time alone…

How can you talk about that? How can you describe….that?

What will you say?  

That you were finishing my sentences after having met me only an hour before…

That your heart was pounding so loudly, I could feel it when my fingers softly touched your chest…

That when you touched me, my body actually tingled and you felt it in your fingertips… 

You called it. You said I was electric

Sensational.

How are you going to talk about loving me?

That I made you moan uncontrollably, even though I covered your mouth with mine..

That I had to hush baby to remind you to keep quiet because your sounds were so sexy…

That you couldn’t keep from staring into my eyes with every thrust, enjoying the look of pleasure, knowing you were giving me that pleasure…

That your body froze once you spilled into me and you called my name. My name

That you wanted to swallow me whole with every kiss…your tongue exploring and never tiring and wanting more and wishing time would stand still…

You said I was amazing. You called me a queen.

What about the second time?  How you spent your birthday in my bed? And how I was trying to wait until midnight to kiss you but I couldn’t wait any longer and your eyes softened like you were in love when I reached over and put my lips on yours? How we were trying so patiently to prolong our love time together so we talked, we talked about why you thought it made sense that I like giraffes? And how we laughed out loud at your choice of animal and we were giddy and youthful and fun? And how, when you undressed, it was an urgency to have your naked body on my bare skin?

How am I going to forget you? How?

Forget the temperature of your skin.

Forget the warmth of your hugs.

Forget the shape of your lips.

Forget the long stroke of your slender fingers.

Forget that scar above your eyebrow, the one I always ask about.

Forget the feel of your back on my fingertips.

Forget the strength of those legs that keep me pinned to this bed.

Forget the length of you that fills me completely.

How?

And the last time….

If I knew that would be our last time, you’d still be here. 

No Words…

No Words…

I don’t want to make my bed.

I don’t want to mess up the memories of my late night and my early morning with…

Him.  

I want the rumpled up bed to remain like this, the print of his head on my pillow, the duvet tossed carelessly aside to enable him to move…

On top of me.

When his lips captured mine, all the questions didn’t matter.  My why’s and when’s and how come’s were answered as soon as his tongue touched mine.

Nothing mattered.

His voice, his face, his eyes, his smile.

That smile.

And then he looked down at me as he entered me, his eyes watching mine, his mouth reaching and I could sense the struggle between kissing me and watching me and kissing won because kissing me was what he was meant to do.

His strokes were in tempo with my heart, his moans in sync with my breath, and I laid still, capturing the moment in my memory so I could think about it now, write about it now, remember the details now.

He spoke my words, my thoughts, my feelings..

Do you know how good you feel?

And…

I want to stay inside you like this forever.

And I smiled because I know.

I know. 

I knew then that I wanted him inside forever.

But then the waves started to threaten and I could feel him, and he moved, ever so rhythmically, pounding yet caressing, pushing yet touching, fucking yet…

Loving.

So loving and maddening and frustrating and…

You’re amazing.  

Perfectly in tune with what my body was telling him, listening to how my body moved, yet, still I laid, capturing, remembering, thinking…

Memorizing his body and his strokes and his touch and his skin, my God his skin, and his mouth that made me tremble and go weak and limp under his command and still, I laid, motionless…

No words.

And I lay here now, remembering, thinking, memories of his body on this bed, his body on mine, his fingers on my skin, his tongue probing, finding…

I remember your taste.

And I can’t wait to have him again.

You.

I want to know all of you…

I want to know how to please you.  How to constantly breathe fresh air into your being, so that I may be selfish and consume you.  Move you.  In ways that make us dance forever, US being in tune.  I just want to groove with you.

You are sunshine, no grey skies.  I’m trying to climb all the way to where you are, in order to get a better view of you.  You are a gift from the Creator, created on the most expensive canvas.

I just want my strokes to make it so that I’m worthy of continuing to examine the masterpiece that is you.

And if time is precious, I will never waste it by being anything but of value to you.

For I adore you, the definition of true love….

You.

Written by @litlifelikeit

Back 2 Sleep

We talk.

In my head, we have these conversations, these he-said-she said types of convo.  

“You love how I eat on that cookie…”

And it’s been months but I hear your voice.

“I can tell you been eating those pineapples.”

Where’ve you been?  I drive around hoping to run into you, catch that red light, look casually over to my left and see you there.

“Let me fuck you back to sleep…”

And in my head, that conversation has happened and even these fantasies are rushed through, just to get you in my bed.

“As soon as I touch you there…”

You’re always smiling, always happy to see me.  But your mystery kills me, this slow suicide that chokes me, suffocates me little by little.

“You want me to say your name…”

You’re mine in my fantasy.

“Lay there naked waiting for me…”

And it’s perfect, even when it’s not.  This vibe, this connection, months later I feel you, and I know you feel me too.  It’s scary really, when I pop in your head and you wonder where I came from, you want to reach out, you want to feel these curves, you want to taste this.

“Let me ride…”

And the answer is always yes.  In my head, it’s happened over and over and baby boy, over again and yet again.

“Just hold on tight to me, girl…”

And there’s no pain, no sadness, just mutual satisfaction and pleasure and you’re back right where you belong, right where my head’s had you all along, right where my insides want you deep.

“I wanna fuck you back to sleep.”

S.B.S. ❤️

Dirty Talk

 

So dirty.  So much talk.  Always so much to say.  It’s a sex conversation, conversation while sexual:

“Don’t stop baby, I’m going to come.”

But wait, I’m thinking too fast.  Let me start again.

“You feel so damn good baby.”

And,

“Fuck, why are you so good?”

“Who fucks you like me, huh?  Who loves your dick like I do?”

But,

“I want this forever.  Can we fuck like this forever?  I can never tire of this boo, I can do this every damn day.”

The one-liners,

“Jesus Christ.”

“Holy fuck.”

Turning to religion like,

“My God, I’m going to come.”

“Dear God, I love this dick.”

Met with,

“You like this, don’t you?”

“Can you take it?  Can you take it all?”

And,

“Give it to me.  Let me hear you.  Say my name.”

The laughter, the moans, dear Jesus, the moans, the sounds his body makes when it’s met with mine, the passion of his lips against mine, his skin on me, his limbs wrapped around me, my nails digging into his back, this language, this communication…

“Goddamn this pussy.”

And,

“This is mine.  This is all mine.”

“Are you sure?  You sure this is yours?”

“I can guaran-fucking-tee it’s mine.  I know it’s mine.  You’re molded to my dick.”

And then he kisses my face, my cheeks, and he lets his lips glide along my neck, down into my valley, my body languidly stretching out for further pleasure, my head thrown back in utter and complete ecstasy and I just want this, I just want him.

“Let me get it baby, let me feel that ‘nani all over me, come all over this dick, baby.”

And his voice brings me where I need to go, where he wants me to be and in a few more words, his gentle coaxing voice urging me, while Breezy in the background talking about ‘don’t say a word, just let me fuck you back to sleep’, the irony making me laugh as my man’s stroke is in sync to the words, the talk, this dirty talk and it assists in my release, the pressure building and then quickly soothing, my legs stretching out, my body motionless for a second, two, three, four, fuck, five, six, dear God, seven, eight, motherfucker, while everything pulses and throbs and vibrates and shakes and he thrusts, pushing deeper…

“Yes baby, like that, just like that, just like that.”

 

You Don’t Know…

No slow motion.

It’s that revenge shit, where he tested this flexibility and made my walls remember him, because you didn’t.

It’s that hate passion, that raw fucking, where he didn’t even put his lips to mine but instead sucked on my neck to leave a reminder, to make you remember these lips are yours.

But you don’t know.  You don’t know.

It’s that mad fucking, that make-time-for-me-motherfucker fucking, that you’re-gonna-miss-your-boo-when-I-make-her-mine sex, the one you’ll wish you could get back fucking.

It’s that sad sex, the one that made me close my eyes tight and imagine you instead of him, the tears threatening a pool in my ears because you weren’t there, you weren’t here, you weren’t.

And my body knew it wasn’t you, even with my eyes forced shut, it wasn’t you because you didn’t feel right, it wasn’t your skin, your breath, your touch, your moans, your voice, it wasn’t your size inside, it wasn’t your love inside. 

But you don’t know.  You don’t know.

And I lay here spent, aching from his fucking, aching from his workout on me, hurting from this pain in my heart that’s torn.

All because you don’t know.

Lazy Love, Part II

*read part one here*

I make room for him on the chair that’s meant for one and he’s sitting entirely too close and I tell him he should be comfortable because it’s his house so he stretches a leg over me.  Again, this comfort.

We toast from our mismatched wine glasses and we sip and it’s clearly evident how magnetic this attraction is.  He asks me questions and watches my mouth as I answer him and he looks into my eyes and I’m distracted.

He suddenly places his finger in the middle of my spine and starts trailing it up and down, making me sit upright.  My head instinctively falls back and my eyes close, an open invitation for more.

He pulls me back towards him and places his finger on my chin.  He raises my head to his mouth and kisses me, softly but urgently.  I feel his need for me.

I stand up and hold my hand out to him.  In an instant he’s by my side, guiding me towards his bed.  He pulls my sweater over my head and my hands are on his chest, taking in every last muscle, my fingers not able to get enough of this man.  I want him underneath me.

He lays me down gently and turns me over on my belly.  His fingers grasp my waistband and my undies are slid over my behind, my legs.  He lays directly on me, feeling, wanting, needing.  His arousal is evident and I moan loud enough to let him know I’m ready.

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He pulls me up and kisses me, his lips and tongue lingering over my back, the curve of my behind, in between my legs and I’m anxious now, wanting this desire to be filled, completed.

“This is mine,” he whispers, barely audible.  “I’m going to make you mine.”

In one thrust, he’s inside, sending me over every edge, my body pulsing with every last touch of his.   His movements are calculated, rhythmic, smooth and experienced.  He’s aiming for my pleasure, my need, my want.

I push up against him, aching to reach mine but he’s a slow lovemaker, lazy almost, making sure I feel every last inch of him and I want to speed him up, I’m close, so close but he’s taking his time and I’m grabbing the bedsheets and holding onto his back and gripping his shoulders and yet he continues his slow and loving motion.

I give in to all the feelings and he senses this and starts moving faster.  He looks down into my eyes and smiles and briefly he stops, tenses up and I’m going against him, pushing and pulling and wanting all he’s got to give and together, in seconds, we call out and we’re done; hearts pounding, sweat beading, bodies sticking, spent and content.