somewhere behind the morning…

Dear Gentle Sir,

If ever I have felt your mouth on me, it is because your tongue is a wand and my moans, my squirms, my arching spine, and spreading legs are the magic we make.

If I have ever felt your hands wrapped around me, it is because I am waiting for you to trace my curves and folds and slippery creases. It is because I want to feel your hands to spread me and juice me, as your fingers wander and whip me into the frenzy of delight I can be. I ache to feel your strong hands grip me with need and unstoppable desire.

If ever I have felt your cock slipping, inching, sliding, pounding, dancing, and filling me it is because you are beautiful and I am the mirror I want you to see.  There you are – sexy, sweet, strong, and wondrous in your passion… even in your doubt, you are powerful.

Why else would I offer myself? Why else would I splay myself for you and your pleasure. Why else would I hold you in my arms and kiss you sweet? Why else would I try and try and try… until I have no words. Was it not you who titillated my mind and made my body tremble and arch and ache and drip and throb with impossible heat?

If ever you think of me, remember the gift you are. You still fill me like no other.

Squirmingly Yours,

Lola Moi xo

gone are the birds that were our summer guests…

looking legsThe crickets are raucous; wild for a reason, I guess.
The wind feels like… courage.
(Like that, only simpler.)
The fire pit smoulders; my hair smells of ash.
Tonite.
A season comes to pass framed by silky memories
and eventual, hopeful strains for some near-distant night.
You. Me. This.
We spread ourselves wide to the horizon that cradles our future –
the velvet expanse of our yet-to-be-known.
Awash in the restlessness of almost-goneness
I wish I had more time
grateful I can leave some of all that was behind.
A fruition of time that on this eve
blossoms and wilts.

Leaving is bittersweet.
It always is.
L

– Lola Moi –