(in)delicacies…

I straddle you, naked. I am far from perfect but what I am is soft. Unbelievably smooth. You’re reminded of this as you feel my inner thighs rest on the outside of yours. As your hand caresses the side of my hip and traces down, gentle in its casual admiration. You stretch yourself out for me and my hands trace your chest, your shoulders, and lift your hands to my mouth. I kiss you. First your fingers. I place your hands on my breasts, under so you can feel their giddy roundness, the subtle weight that small, perky breasts offer. I kiss your hands that give me such pleasure, luxuriating in your length.

My other hand gently circles again and again around your head – the glistening pre-cum giving me all the lube I need. I take my time with you. I take my time discovering you anew. Mewing my approval so much so that you wish I had tied you up so that you could truly give yourself over to me. My appetite for you is boundless. We both want you to watch me do exactly what I want with your body. Your cock bobs its magical dance to the sound of my voice, transforming my radiant wish into… something more.

“I want you to moan.”

And before the surprise in your exhale has time to rest, my cunt is there, paused just above your face. You think you are the only one who feels helplessness; you don’t realize how distracting your mouth is for me every moment of every day we are apart. My head falls back, anticipating you, us. I can feel your hot breath between my legs.

And you feel it too – you smell my juice – just reading that.
Don’t you?
The moan that just slipped from the back of your throat?
It’s mine.
I claim it for my clit.

I rest my weight on your face. Finally. My back arches in response—in delicate, luxurious echo.

Again, the moan that just slipped out, it is mine—along with all the ones that follow. I bite my lip, I want you so fucking bad. Right now, your claim is the fuck juice between my legs and the tremble in my hands (as I type and) as I hold your head and lift your beautiful face even deeper inside me. My sigh is every pleasure for you unveiled.

There is nothing hidden right now, especially not with the weight I give your mouth as you split me wide and unblushingly suckle, slurp, and seize my folds between your tongue and lips and teeth (so fucking clever, you). And I can’t help myself; I can’t stop grinding every millimeter of my sopping, silken pussy onto your mouth.

My ragged breaths inspire you. I’m riding your face now, sliding up and down, sideways and around, everything you’re doing is so fucking perfect. From between the slick of our sounds, your voice is a growl:

“I want you to moan.”

And the moan that just vibrated out of me now, is yours. Please, claim it for your cum. You must. For the throbbing, bobbing cock begging for release as you read these words and for my swollen, velvet pussy lips that threaten to squirt all over you.

i wrote a good omelet…

I wrote a good omelet…and ate
a hot poem… after loving you
Buttoned my car…and drove my
coat home…in the rain…
after loving you
I goed on red…and stopped on
green…floating somewhere in between…
being here and being there…
after loving you
I rolled my bed…turned down
my hair…slightly
confused but…I don’t care…
Laid out my teeth…and gargled my
gown…then I stood
…and laid me down…
To sleep…
after loving you

  — Nikki Giovanni —

not the first…

Dear Gentle Sir,

I loved a man who was afraid of the Possible – the enormity of it. With me, he began to experience himself in his truest dimensions, that is, until he couldn’t bear it. So, he blamed me for his growing fear. He became afraid of me, not realizing it had nothing to do with me; I simply showed up and held up a mirror. He looked. He saw. He chose another – as is his wont. He prefers that which keeps him, contains him, controls him.

But even now, it is still in him – all that is Possible.
And it still has nothing to do with me.

These days, he tells himself things are great, that he is in a better place than ever before but he’s a step beside where he was before me: he is still small; he remains secretly, deeply afraid of the enormity of himself, of his own Light. He is happiest when he can hide.

Where once there was love, there now lives insight and a kind of wounded wisdom. Every time I kiss you, I wonder if you will (again), like him, take your turn and blame me for your fear? Or will you focus on my nipples, my glowing clit, and hot moans… hoping to drown out the terrifying call of what is Possible within you? Of the choices you are too afraid to make?

Truth is, it won’t be the first time.
I imagine you won’t try to be the last.
If I’m still here, that is.

Thoughtfully Yours,

Lola xo