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Feel It.

Baby, tell me you want it deeper, I don’t ever wanna come out, put you in a coma, yeah a sleeper. – “Feel It”, Jacquees featuring Rich Homie Quan and Lloyd.

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I love how he’s always ready for me.  I don’t have to do much, just a slight touch like so and…

Oh yeah, he’s ready.  I pull my hand away slowly and let it rest on his thick thigh and look over at him.  He catches my eye, his dark eyes go even darker, like he’s ready to pounce.

I watch as the thin line of smoke escapes his lips into the dark and humid night.  He flicks the end of his smoke out the driver window and turns to face me.  He moves closer and puts his hand on my hip.

I take his hand and move it in between my legs, over the flimsy material of my cotton dress.

Oh it’s like that?

I smile and he bends down to kiss me, the unmistakable taste of the weed he’s been smoking on his tongue.  I inhale him, his own scent mingled with the weed and the last remnants of his after-shave.

It’s like that.

His kisses are savage-like and unadulterated.  Ardent, like a fucking fire you need to extinguish.

I tell him this and he says:

It’s you.  You alone do this.

This.  This what?  Lovemaking.  This fucking?  My mind is always in a constant battle…

Lovers love.  What is this?  This is sex.  We’re fucking.  There’s no feelings…

He moves quickly and pulls me on top of him and slips himself in between my thighs. Perfect match.

I feel him.

I feel the pounding of his heart over mine.  I feel his mouth on my skin.  Warm and wet.  I’m trying not to feel, but motherfucker, do I ever feel…

I feel his hands on my face, my neck, my shoulders…I feel…

And as he’s kissing my mouth, calling me “baby”…

I don’t want to, I really want to avoid this feeling, but I’m unable, not wanting to fucking feel this man and all he does to me, I’m not wanting these feelings, but I can’t resist him, I can’t leave him alone and all I do is….feel….

….his hands in my hair.  And then…

…his hands on my throat.  God.

…his warm breath in my ear.  Why does this feel so good?

…his length deep inside me.  Fuck me.

No feelings?

Why then, why does he touch me with these goddamn big hands like this?

Why, why does he push his body into mine like this?

Why does he press my breasts into his chest like this?

And why, dear Jesus, why does he kiss my forehead so tenderly?  Why does he rock into me, while he stares down at my face like this, speaking to me like:

That mouth baby…

Why does he stare into my eyes, waiting, wanting, asking for this pleasure that’s his, this pleasure that’s mine, this pleasure he gives me, so right, just like this, so lovely, ever so lovely?

Look at me…

He says.  He tells me to look at him.  Fuck.

Don’t look away.  Look at me.

And I’m shaking my head, avoiding his stare.  I know it’s time.  I feel it.  He brought me here.

Give it…

He says.

Let it go baby.  Don’t fight it.  Give it to me…

And I swear his voice is an aphrodisiac, because right then, I can’t help it, I can’t control it, I’m staring into his eyes and gasp as if something struck my heart and he smiles and lets go with me, as if he had this planned, as if this was his purpose, as if this is meant to be…

And as if he’s trying to fuck with my head and heart further, he whispers:

I feel you.

Make Me Smile…

He smiles at me.
I make him smile.
And he moans with me.
Because I make him moan.
It’s dizzying really. Heady. Instant laid back passion. Not laidback, but back laid kinda passion, my head all the way past the edge, head back kinda passion.
And I feel drunk. And high. Weak in the knees for what he’s about to give me in between the knees….
He fills me up, his length fitting perfectly down and deep and he holds my throat like I’m his possession, a prize, owned by him and his throne…
And then he tips his head down over my valley and dips and licks and smiles…
Because I make him smile.
But then he flips this script and turns me over and suddenly I’m underneath his weight..
“I need to put this weight on you…”
And I smile because he makes me smile and I’m moaning now, getting crushed by this love he’s giving and..
“I can’t look at your mouth…”
Because he knows what this mouth can do and..
“It’s going to make me come”…
“Are you sure it’s my mouth that’s gonna make you…”
“Shut your mouth,” he says, “just shut your mouth.”
So I tease and love him and his mouth is on my skin and on my eyes and on my throat and he knows I can’t deal, he knows I can’t deal with all he’s got.
“Ask for it. Tell me what you want.”
“Give it,” I say. “I want it now. Give it to me now.”
And with a couple of thrusts, he does as I command and I respond, my body responds and we’re together now.
So I smile. Because he makes me smile. 

It Wasn’t You

I shut my eyes.  Tight.  It wasn’t you.

As his hand slid over my  breast, and he moaned, it wasn’t you.

His hand slid over my belly, dipped down into my valley, my eyes just got tighter and I turned my head, willing his eager face out of my mind.

He moved on top and his head buried deep in my neck, his mouth breathing hot air, his tongue darting in and out and I groaned.  Where are you?

Why aren’t you here?  Why aren’t you him?  Why isn’t he you?

He entered me and my body gave in to the pleasure, gave in to my weakness and I begged my body to respond quick, begged my body to hurry up and get mine.

And within minutes, as he moved against me, grinding on me, filling me completely, my body released, pushing against him for that extra inch that would give me that extra mile.

And still my eyes remained closed.  Wide shut.  Your pretty face in my head, looking deep into my eyes, that smile spreading on your face, asking for my want, asking for my need, asking for me to give myself, your voice in my ear, your scent on my pillow, your touch on my skin.

But you weren’t here.  

Because it wasn’t you.

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.

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. ❤️

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Till You’re Ready

You’re still here.  Not as much as before, but you’re here.

You pop in suddenly, like you want to remind me. 

But I don’t need reminders.  I remember you all on my own.

I remember the shape of your eyes, the hue of brown they were, how they shone when you looked at me.

Yes, your eyes shine. 

I remember the smile you didn’t really like, but I loved.  Love.  Still.

And your voice.  I remember it.  And your laugh.  To a tee, I remember.

And your feel.  I remember how you feel when I lay my head on your chest and your heart thumping in excitement or nervousness or whatever it is, but I feel it beating against me and I remember your back muscles and your arms, dear God, why do I remember it just like yesterday?

And then, I wonder if you’re loving, if you’re letting someone love you.  I wonder if you’re touching or who’s touching you.  I wonder who your heart beats for, who’s making your heart beat, who’s got you.

Sometimes, most times, when he’s deep in my walls and I’m closing my eyes and reaching, it’s you above me, you’re helping me reach, you’re helping me get it and get it and get it again.  And it’s your name in my head, your name I see in the darkness of my eyelids, your eyes in my memory, your mouth sucking all the life out of my soul, your teeth biting my lip, your tongue soothing that bite as you moan my name, over and over and over in pleasure.

And when he spills and I adjust my body to accept him, it’s you I’m accepting, you who’s spilling.  And I want to yell out, I want to make you hear me, make you feel me, make you more than just a damn memory.  I want you to feel it, I want you to hear it, I want you to remember.

These damn memories.

They’re here.  They’re not going away.

And I’ll wait.

Until you’re ready.  

For the next time you contact me.  

Lazy Love

Oh, you got that, I don’t wanna,

That I don’t wanna go nowhere, lazy love,

You got that, I don’t wanna,

That I don’t wanna do nothing, that lazy love. ~ NeYo, “Lazy Love.”

He greets me at the door wearing sweat pants and a wife beater.  He has no idea what one of those items does for my thirst, imagine the deadly combo…

He’s barefoot and comfortable and immediately this makes me smile.  He lets me in and half hugs me but I fold into him and he hugs me again, fully, hands tightly around my back like this happens every day…

I can’t stop looking at his arms.  He has no idea how many times his arms have been in my thoughts, how many times those arms kept my legs up in the air, how many times those arms were above my head, how many times I bit into his flesh…

His pants are too big and they slide ever so discreetly over the vee of his torso and goddamn, I think, why doesn’t he tighten that string that’s made specifically for that reason and then I think, maybe he did that on purpose because he wants to tease me and get me on my knees…

His back is strong and sculpted and again, he has no idea about how I feel about strong backs or else he wouldn’t make me follow him but I follow him into the kitchen and watch as he struggles to open up a bottle of wine and it’s clear he doesn’t have to do that often and again, I smile, because he’s doing this solely for me and I think too much and I like to make up stories in my mind and this particular story in my mind in his kitchen is endearing…

It’s not small talk.  It’s like he knows I hate small talk because our conversation flows and our words mingle and already he’s finishing my sentences and I just want to kiss him as I watch his mouth move and his lips, Jesus, his lips…

And I say something that makes him smile and his eyes crinkle in the corner and motherfuck, why do I want to lick his crinkle, why are his eyes so sexy…

He leads me upstairs and I could tell he cleaned up for me, a girl knows when a man gets ready for her and he did, he got ready for me and again, another thought pops into my head and I’m saying this is all too good to be true…

I want nothing more than to lay him down on his neatly made bed, nothing more than to pull those sweat pants down over that vee and have that back under my fingertips and have those arms in between my teeth.  But I don’t.

I sit on the chair in the corner…