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mírame…

I recently read that there is no greater intimacy then to hold your lover’s eyes as you cum. I believe this to be true. The trick is to find another who is brave enough to bear such beauty in their soul… this light called Hope.

mírame

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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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into the sunset…

“You’re riding me.”

This thot spills out of your mouth in breathy whisper before you can stop yourself. Though you are not alone; we are both slightly amazed at this. . . fit. My silky thighs tense. I spread and you slip in even deeper. Your hands firm. This is where we want me. You, to see me, to drink in the upward curve of my swinging tits. Me to pinch my nipples for our mirrored jaws, dropped. I want you in awe. I want your chant “Yeah, oh yeah, Fuck.”  You hold my hips in place and I buck. The last of your fullness pushes my smooth lips aside. I swell with the stretch of your cock filling me to its end. A ragged gasp falls out of me, I am over-heating. . . pulsing with need. I dig my fingers into your chest and harder, I thrust into you.

I am.
I’m riding you into the sunset.

My juice, my juice slaps us sweet to slick. Me above, you below. Breathy silence rides the wind of our rhythm, of my fwapping thighs and our soaked groins. When you thumb my clit, you push me deeper into your gaze and I break, I can’t do this. . . can’t bear the blurring of what we both want. I take. In this moment, I take your length and your beauty and our trust. I inhale with the only part of me that matters. I gorge on our giving, on our passion. I am insatiable. Right until you flip me around and take me from behind, ass up, legs entwined, I take you in. We fill this saddle and we fuck. We fuck. We fuck me hard and deep into this forbidden night. My own button pushing, pushing us both, spilling us over the edge.

I feel your lasso fingers well into the next day. Invisible, if not for this ache you’ve branded into me. Your voice the echo that tethers me to a Promise of More.  So much more.

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a tug of greatness…

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

– James Joyce –

tug on greatness