forty one (or, of a certain age), part 1…
Tonite, I dress for you. I consider your eyes on me, what outline might please you. I don’t wear a bra. I want to feel the soft fabric brush my nipples. I want the sides of my cupable breasts to imprint. I want your cock to leap with delight seeing my silhouette moving amidst the crowd.
Like it has before… and will again.
I only wear these lacy, delicate panties so that you can peel them off me – with your fingers and eventually, your mouth. Mmmm, your mouth. I wonder if anyone else will be able to smell my wet that is already aching for you? I rub lotion into my tawny skin, down and all around the length of my long, lean limbs and strong legs; who knows where you will kiss and nibble on me? Everywhere, I hope.
And suckle, too – pausing to dance your tongue in the crooks and nooks of my arms and knees — on my achilles — then sucking my velvet skin into your warm mouth. I want you to hear my gasp as I cry out, buck and barely prevent myself from squirting the truth of these secret niches of my bod, hiding in plain view.
I consider putting my hair up so that you can see my nape and the soft part below and just behind my ears… where moans spill out of me and my knees buckle when you kiss me there. Instead, I dab a trace of perfume there, leaving my dark mane loose and wild, draping down my back and over my shoulders.
I want to make it easy for you to picture the future: my naked body with yours, my head falling back, turning to look at you, your grip enfolded in the bouquet of my sex-soaked tendrils as my smiling mouth drops open, groaning my pleasure and praise-moaning your name.
Until then, we will mingle. And sit or stand just a little bit too close but not so close that anyone would really notice. I want to feel the heat off your body, feel it sinking into mine, through our clothes and modesty and public joviality. I want to feel your eyes on me as I walk away, towards, around you. I want to know that you are picturing all my skin underneath, feeling the energy of my passion and the delicious foreplay that is this waiting game. I want to look up from another conversation and see you already seeing me; my smile an echo to your wink. To this busy room, we seem miles apart but like spidersilk, our need is weaving us closer, taut with longing to be inside the other.
Eventually, the gravitational pull of our… affinity… overwhelms decency and pulls us out onto the street. We slowly walk arm in arm, talking about the party and people and places and things until there, in the shadow of stars and deepening night, you kiss me. Finally. You feel my body once more where you most need it: against you. Our lips trace back and forth and slowly, we venture deeper into the other’s mouth, taking pleasure in the evening’s palate. I can feel how each kiss invisibly swirls down to charm my soft-as-plush clit and swelling lips. As in echo, the urgency of our kisses increase until our breath, audible, also steams.
I pull away. I don’t look at you right away, I just trace your neck, chest, and stomach. You watch me, as you do— as I know you like to. I pull on your waistband. I slip my finger in just far enough for you to feel the contrast of your ravenous heat and the cool night, just deep enough to feel my finger tip graze and circle the edge of your gloriously hard cock. We exhale. Deeply, looking into one another. We can’t help but smile.
Fuck, I love your smile, especially when it’s at me and I am in your arms. I suddenly want to tell you that your every touch has been a bookmark to favourite passages. But I don’t. Neither of us seems to know language in this moment; it’s just bodies and breath wrapped inside a gnawing need to be free. To know permission and passion. I can only show you… soon. Soon, when we are finally and fully alone.
— to be continued —
this is what i like about photographs…
They’re proof that once,
even if just for a heartbeat,
everything was perfect.
— Jodi Picoult —
once upon a sweet time…
just so…
The crease of my hips fits your hands (just so). You note this as you watch, as is your preference. Stripped down to silky skin – caramel soft on white, white sheets, I swing my hair over my shoulder and look back at you (just so). Your gentleman hands hold my ankles sweet and I shift away from you onto the bed, onto my tummy.
Side-boobs gently bulge, and my hands slip between my legs (just so). I rock on my clit. I dig the soft, firm edge of my knuckles into the growing nub of my passion until my voice catches, making your heart skip a beat (just so).
You smell me now, this wet that’s been waiting for you. My panting breath catches in a moan and your head drops back. I am here, splayed, spread, juiced-up for you. I feel the air cool on my ass compared to the heat dripping between my curled fingers. You lightly brush my ass cheeks with your lips. I lift my ass (just so). And each time you brush, I lift with a deeper moan. My arms are taut from the strain of my personal-public pleasure; this show is for you alone.
My gasps strain for you with sounds ragged like the shape of your name, like the curves of “yes” and “please.” And when you finally reach for me, it is for the crease at my hips that hooks me and pulls me up (just so) onto the wet of your mouth, the swell of your glorious hard… the slam and pound of our voracious need.
Just so.
Sweet Lover, just so.
– Lola Moi –
favum… vos sunt a musa
Yes:
Let the wax raise
green statues, let the honey
drip in infinite tongues, let the ocean be a big comb
and the Earth a tunic of flowers, let the World
be a cascade, magnificent hair, unceasing
growth of Beedom.
– Pablo Neruda –
hooked…
intimate doubts…
venus takes a (studio) break…
catch your breath…
Honeyed alabaster.
Flawless skin, smooth like silk. No, like air. She moves across the room and you can’t take your eyes off her. A freckle. A cocktail dress clings to the sides of her small, generous curves; her breasts slightly rambunctious and buoyant. The emerald-green bounces light into her sweet, brown eyes. The waves and coils of her hair catch your breath like a spider’s web.
Bewitched.
I slip between you: softly, hungrily licking and lifting the creamy sauce from her slick, velvety creases.
Our cries – melodic in their intensity, harmonized in their passion – crescendo.
Succubus.
– Lola Moi –