Their chests conjoin like drum heads as their pleasure crescendos , reverberating from the source.
Their foreheads magnetize.
He cradles her beneath him like a floating leaf, in reverence of her colors, extracting her spring, yet aware of the winter she still carries.
He devours her alchemy, unearthing her buried treasure, he's eager to please.
Surrendering to the winds of their ecstasy, allowing the imprints of the man she once loved to be caressed, painted over, and bid adieu.
Coquettishly his lips claim her cheeks, her eyelids, her breasts. He will never know the overly sensitive spot on her neck that when provoked, will send her into a fit of laughter.
She fights the memory of laying over her past love, planting her lips with adoration all over his body, the octopus tattoo, the scar on the collarbone, and all the ways he could not love you. Locked inside their jungle bungalow for hours never checking the clock, only the geckos understood their language.
Pressing her kisses into his skin with her fingertips as if to make them permanent, she coyly whispered in his ear " Now no one will ever be able to kiss you there." And now she wonders. The impermanence of loves tattoo, a vicious paradox.
Memories flood, in hot rolls they silently fall from her eyes, down her temples, and abound a sea into her ears. Deafened by her tears, she's taken back to the days when the sea was her haven. When she lived on the island, when her heart was heavy, running to the sea with an urgency to feel the lightness, to be understood, and to be held unabashedly. Muted salvage , she floated with her heart surrendered to the sky.
Clasping her heels into his waist, she draws him in. "my sea for now," she thinks. All sand must shift. She Subdues the memories, drawing him in further, and floats.
Adieu, love.
With elbows bedded deep in the pure white grains of sand beneath his muscular frame, his foundations firm, with renewed vigour he rallied defence to the mounted attack.
ReplyDeleteEntirely expecting her pray to fall to the routine game of arduous torture he retorts, surrounding her with what she might have mistaken through her disoriented state a manifestation of a thousand hands likening her body to a pincushion of pleasure with every brush, stroke and commanding hold of her sweat beaded skin she was instructed.
His lips drawing not just her taste, smell and feel deep within but her essence and the part of her that until now had not been harnessed by another. Their connection mutual and delicate in the nuances of the play of souls entwined in coition.
Her ache increasing akin to the sun that never sets and burns hot the skin of those within it's light. With his power and momentum, their movements synced, flowed and lubricated with the torrent of desire their tension raised to a level of sheer absurdity as she gently bites his tongue and charges his eyes with the light of her benign countenance.
Hello, love.
Nicolle, you busy on Saturday pm. There's a movement workshop on!?
ReplyDelete