FEED My MIND: Adventure. Learn. Live. Write.
Be careful handing out your beautiful heart.
She is hungry for adventure and careless in her expressions of wants. Believe you have captured her essence, her needs, and they will be unset from stone just as easily as she cemented them in your mind.
Insatiable for what she cannot have, she reaches for it anyway. Her beautiful bottom, strong back, smooth thighs move and dance at your command, your wish, your pleading request for a slow intentional show, just for your eyes, for a time, yes.
As she stretches forward, to toss her lacy underthings to the floor, her satisfied smile is already fleeting, hidden behind the curtain of her sex-fed hair, she returns for more, and takes her place above you. Muscles quivering, panting breath, a heat filled laugh escapes her wine colored lips, the sweat of her shoulders and face mingles into the kiss she feeds you, and as her hand touches your jaw, she pulls into her mouth a bit of your free will.
Rising above you, she is taking. Lift your hands to cup her cheeks and she will throw her head back, giving you her chin, dipping into your palm, left, then right, and back, even as you smooth back the dark tendrils, she will loosen them from your fingertips, spill the curls over your wrists and make you her canvas with the lapping brush strokes of her hair.
Trying to hold back your hopes, you will transfer your own resistance to the moment, and involuntarily will grip ever so slightly, more tightly her beautiful face, and yet, with her throat exposed to your hungry eyes, you will not last long.
She’ll lean in to taste your shoulder, will trace a circle with the tip of her tongue on your ear, will flick in, once, twice, and add a sigh that will cause you such pain when you revisit it, straining to hear it again, days later, and a hundred times over.
In the night when you wake up, fingers outstretched, clawing to pull some of the heat she may have left in the fibres, she’ll be there but only in the traces of her scent; all she made time to leave behind, when she hastily reclaimed her panties from under the pillow, and her silk stockings from the tangled sheets.
Throw open the windows, the icy winter howl is the only way to clear your mind of her. Do not jump.
She’s not for you.
She’s all for self.