Not Just Lust

Everything

The thing is, I remember everything. Every inch. Every curve. The curl of your lip. The way your nipple rises when I go for seconds. Each little skin tag and mole. The depth and deceptive tightness. The sounds you make when we move to a new speed, a new depth, and fresh helplessness. I remember what I see when you cross the room. I remember how you feel as I lay on you. I remember everything Clothes and time and distance do nothing to blur what I know. You think we are apart now and again. But we are not. Because I remember everything.

Still finding my old poems from my Tumblr deleted site saved by others. Thanks to all of you who reposted them!

Consequences

Blindfolded, you feel more  intensely.  Each caress.  Each tiny pinprick of pain

is distinct from the other. 

Until all subtlety is abandoned and I split you asunder,  losing my control to my passion, 

forcing each cry ripped from your lips,  each one the consequence of your surrender. 

At Our Best

Every time I see you anew, I am unsure. A tender kiss? A ravaging? Domination or a focus on your beautiful pleasure? At our best, it's all four.

Tonight I may want you romantic and soft, gentle and yielding, your beauty gently on display, or I may want you trashy and eye-catching in a way that makes the world around us gasp and turn their heads, or I may want you bound, knowing the ravaging is to be brutal and you left with no relief, knowing there will be marks, and the most amazing thing, the wonder of you, is that whatever I want, you give.

No Wonder I Am Smitten

It's the knowing. The certainty. That you will. That you want to. No, need to, move from fantasy to reality, anything, anything at all, to please me.

I love when one of my poems from my deleted blog finds me!

Touch

There is nothing of yours that touches anything of mine that does not excite. 

And Just When You Think

And just when you think there are no more adventures... I show you otherwise.

That is our life. And always will be.

One of my poems from my deleted blog

Trussed

I like you trussed.  Helpless.  Exposed.  Your mind racing at what might be next,  the nature of pleasure,  the nature of pain;  how,  and how long I will take you. 

I like to watch the rise and fall of your chest,  how your breathing increases as I approach,  your eyes darting to my hands.  What are they holding?  What signals do they give you? What are my intentions. 

Your eyes dart as your mind roils and I revel in your gasp at my first touch. 

I like you trussed,  Hanging limp and spent afterwards,  your voice low and raw,  a single line or mascara down your cheek,  your head bowed,  I like the soft whimper as my hands  run up your side, up your back the last time and I cut you loose,  the way you fall into my arms,  Your body spent.  Your mind at rest.  Your soul at peace. 

A Game We Play

It is a game we play, going out in a strange city.

You wearing just what I tell you, tighter with a neckline you'd never wear in our home town. Breasts lifted up like prize possessions, damn near an advertisement, one that gets the attention you deserve.

It's a game we play, surveying the room. Seeing who notices, particularly those alone for the night. Seeing who notices the small anklet gold and diamonds catching the light. Seeing who, and yes, it often shows, has grown hard as I kiss you in candlelight, hands around your shoulder, lingering in the shadow of your cleavage.

It is a game we play, often enough, imagining him, and how and where you want him, or at times, them. Imagining size or girth and the feeling of them, imagining their surprise at just how tight you are on their oversized, swollen members.

It is a game we play, until that one time, when I stand and walk, and invite him over for a drink of you.

I love when I find one of my poems from my deleted blog, or in this case, they find me. @owithadash2point0 - thank you!

An Understanding.

I believe you finally understand. Anywhere means.... anywhere. Anything means anything. And mine means only. completely.