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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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under pressure…

The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.

Sitting there, looking into the vacant eyes of overworked suits, food-fused stollers, and academic neglect, your spine shivers. Not from cold, though with each waft of air something certainly stirs within you. This day, you cannot align yourself with the abundance of barely-beating hearts. Despite your own years of wear and tear, she has gifted you, down to each nerve, with life.

The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.

Thoughts of her sustain you. You can smell her everywhere. You rest your head on the window, close your eyes, and with the everyday gestures of a man, you secretly sniff your collar, the cuff of your jacket, the palm of your hand, your finger… tips. She is still there. Your breath catches with heated reminiscence. There is room for more inside. There is this. This pressure she is… is intense. Your cock tingles and aches to splurge.

The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.

The train carries you closer to her even when you’ve just left, the long ride redolent of each delicious moan you’ve shared. Her soft mounds and curves await you behind closed doors; she is always open for you. She’s not the first who would do anything for you but she is waiting, she is always waiting, has always been waiting and your balls roil with anticipation, your suckable, full cock tips its head and quickens at the thot. No, you cannot commiserate with the dearth of listless grey lives around you. She has claimed you and you are forever changed.

The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.

Open and close.
Open.
Close.

Open…

L
– Lola Moi –

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testing…

She is your hungry, begging playmate, Baby.  She wants nothing more than to be spread wide and used hard by your binge-fucking meat stick.

Yes, yes, fucking yes.

On her knees, this one opens her hungry mouth as you taunt her with all that horndog perfection.  Her saliva drizzles along your fuck-shaft, her eyes never leaving yours as her tongue takes the bait.

You pump her mouth, casually.  Smoke trickles from between your lips, washing over her face until she’s just the thing that matters most – another mouth and a pair of hands.  A brief frown as she watches you draw it back in a flash.

“Nice and slow,” she tells you.

A flicker of a smile. “You like that? The smoke?”

This one mews her pleasure like an animal, her round ass swinging, begging wet for you.  Your strong man-hands mash her juicy mounds, twisting until her small peaked nipples burn.  One hand between her legs, pumps.   The cigarette dangles at the corner of your mouth.

“Suck it,” you whisper, spewing smoke.

She peers up at you, a faceless tongue like so many before her.  You’ve invited her here to take the edge off, but also to test her, to determine if she… if they understand and are willing to comply, before you take them upstairs or home or in your car… before you fuck them hard and true.

She bobs and jacks, nursing you between soft, red lips and a feral tongue. Suddenly, your hips buck and your cum-face flushes the shade of her lipstick. She sucks every last drop from your heaving dick, swallowing as much as she can.

Motherfucker, yes.

She takes the cigarette and inhales deeply. You finally kiss her, accepting her smoke as it passes between you. Your hands slide down the back of her dress and cup her perky ass.

“You up for this, slut?”

She drops the butt to the floor and grounds it out with the toe of her stiletto.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

– By Lola Moi –