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to be dissolved…

Dear Gentle Sir,

I wonder what you would do if I were there now, with you? Would you want me? Would you trace the edge of each shiver you give me? Would you tease me with your hand or your tongue? How would you coax the first moan out of me… and then the third, the 17th, the 27th?

As I slip back into bed, I wonder these things. I wonder what it would take to make you hard? I slip out of my tank and lay on my tummy. I feel my breasts bulge against my weight, pressed hot atop my flannel sheets. I want you to see me. I want you to watch me lift my hips so I can slip out of my lace thong panties. I want you to finish the task when they get caught around my knees. Then, I want your gentle caress along my long legs so that I feel your firm desire. I want you to smell how wet you make me. I want you to lick your lips as you bend your knees, hold my hips, and spread me with your thumbs.

This pause we both take is its own kind of truth.

You underestimate the power you have, the lover you are. You hide such incredible fire inside; each spark of inspiration makes me moan and ache for you when you are gone. I am nothing special but with you, I become extraordinary. With me, you must explore… there are no limits. With me, you have a kind of permission that scares you; I know this, you know this. It frightens me, too, at times until I see you again – ablaze in all your glory – and I am reminded: holy fuck, are you ever beautiful.

Ah! And there it is: my first moan.

 

Not-So-Secretly Yours,

Lola xo

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wanting…

These are the quiet hours. When skin is warm. When I touch myself where you might. Like this – the lightest touch – and I exhale – the subtext, your name. Fuck. Your name; it traces my hidden curves, the secret edges you long for in your quiet hours. I hear your voice as I imagine you must hear mine. When we are alone. When we are remembering. And aching. And needing more.

My hands dip under the lace of my thong. I slip my hand where yours should be. After all, I shaved earlier last night (maybe… for you… perhaps) and I am smoother than silk. I hear you moan at this. At this, and at this delicious first touch on such secret parts.

Our breath suspends between our lips… so close. I am so close to kissing you but this suspense – we like it. We linger in the way your hands slowly explore – drinking up my heat, my soft, my wet soft heat. You are not as mysterious as you like to think you are; I know you want me to moan. I know you don’t want me to look away. I know you want me to tilt myself open, to lift my hips into the scoop of your clever fingers. I know you want to watch my pleasure build.

In this, you also build to your fullest self – your beautiful cock pulsing with anticipation, heeding the call of what is wild within us. And so, instead: I hold as still as I can. I look deep into your eyes (like I just did what seems like only hours ago) and you become – we become – the kind of lost that somehow feels found.

Fuck. Your hands on me. Oh, fuck.

You work different pressures to test me, to test us. Firm to feather-like and everything in between. You like this tension of wanting, of needing, of being needed so badly that only our breath gives us away. And I like it, too. I love it. I love the way you research my pleasure, I love the gentle ways you pry me open with tender need. Your sweetness, your hunger wrapped up in all that desire is sexier than I can say. When your grip on me grows more intense, as you barely hold yourself back, I realize… I don’t know how much longer I can last.

Your fingers are sweet, sweet melody playing along my hips, between my legs, the silky soft pulse of my inner thighs. You want to whisper, “You are so fucking soft.” Instead, we both say, “Fuck” and kiss. Deeply.

Fuck. Your skin on mine. Oh, fuck.

I can’t help it; I break first. I turn on my side and push my ass into the curve of your lap, pushing up against the wide, thick strength of your thighs.  You pull me closer with one hand and cup my perky breast with the other. My nipples are so hard… wired into my clit – the clit you are now holding between forefinger and thumb. I can’t help it: I moan. I moan the way you like it. (Just like I do now.) In this squirm, this folding of knees, and arching of spines, there is no hiding how much we want. There is nothing more I need right now than to fuck you.

Fuck.
I am the moan you just let out.
Oh, fuck me.
You are the gasp I just let out.

We are the quiet hours no more.

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to experience becoming…

When I am with you, I look at you. I search your eyes for pleasure. I watch your jaw, the crease of your mouth, waiting for the taut line of resistance to give way to blushing pleasure. When I smile at you it is not just because I love the way my pussy petals bloom under your dextrous tongue and suckling lips – it is because you are there between my legs and you, wonderfully naked you, are more than I could’ve hoped for. When I moan with you, when I moan your name, it is because my skin against yours is like nothing before or after. You take my breath, now, then, there, and here. Fuck. My outline on the bed, my arms reaching for you, my legs spreading and my hips teasing you is real. This juice sliding past my velvet folds and over, slicking up my clit – all this wet is you and what you do to me.  My hands read you like a book and give with every breath they take. My nipples… a meditation I trace your body with. Our moans: such humbling, hungry need. I am butter against all your beautifully warm skin and your gorgeous hard cock. When you bend me over, I look back at you. I want to be your pleasure. I offer up all the naked I am for just one moan. Just one pump. Just one cum.

… and then, more.

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when you close your eyes, see…

reach behind me as you kiss me
slide my panties to the side
with your other hand
slip between and split me there
my ass so sweet
pump my wet
my legs spread just so to make room
for your curious fingers
your cock swells and dances for me
as we moan
my juice
all over
us

so much juice
so much
just for you

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tunnel vision…

The problem with looking for images for this blog is that on days like today, I simply cannot choose; you are everywhere. You are in me, on me, behind me. We are wrapped, splayed, spread. I am reaching, pumping, dripping.  Together: under, beside, on top. And again: licking, moaning, squirting.

Lover, you are everywhere.

Each image, every video reminds me of what we’ve already done or fuels hope for what might yet be. And I am whipped into horny wet… here, where I sit. I soak my panties thinking about you. I rush home, I climb into bed, into the tub – anywhere I can be wet wet wet. And all I want is to cum with you – for you… and you, for me.

And you have no idea, my Sweet how sexy you truly are.

Truth is, these days are many – so fucking many days like today – when you are all my skin can think about. When I am overwhelmed with wanting you. When I know how well-met we are in that secret place the other needs.

For how complex things are, this is simple: I want you. And I know: you want me. Fuck, I want you more than I know how to say. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Just, fuck.

tunnel vision

 

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holy fuck, yes…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There is a spot in my clit that, when pressed/squeezed/sucked, fills my entire body with delicious squirm. There is a spot along your jaw that has the same effect on me – mostly when you look me in the eyes and smile. And always when you moan. Always then.

There is spot in the crook of each elbow (cousin to the same spots behind my knees) that, when licked/suckled/nibbled, fills me wet and raw with hunger. There is a spot under the head of your cock that has the same effect on me – mostly when you groan and tremble uncontrollably with electric need. And always when you blush. Always then.

There is a spot between us that is silent, still. A space that awaits your touch – suspended time. A breath between us, sometimes translated into words we read. Other times, into the secret, soft crevices of the other’s ear. A pause that is the slick juice between my legs, the hardening of my nipples, the arch of my ass into the air, the sweet swelling of my lips, and the reaching of my heart’s skin to feel you inside me. Again.

And again.
Fuck, I need to feel you again.
To see your eyes full of need for me, and for you to see mine, too.

There is a spot inside you, inside me, that neither of us can deny. (As much as we have tried. And will likely try some more.) You: the calm before the storm. Me: the “yes” to your “no.” We trace these spots – so many spots – in our mind’s eye, each time we lick the tips of fingers that still shine with the slick secret of our honey cum.

To remember is to do.
To do is to create memories new.

“Tell me more. Show me.”

Please,

Lola Moi xo

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strait crossing…

strait crossing
The wind seduces me.
Always.
Like your eyes do.
Like your mouth… and tongue does.
Like your hands do.
And each sweet moan.
It matters not that I tell myself:
I am a creature of the land and my soul is the water.
It’s always the wind that captures me unawares.