Legs parted and thoughts of entrancement zipped to the near miss of...what...through these memories only a vision of what could have happened if the hand grazed... sweetness is the taste of what has been thought never to have become...no more guilty remnants, no more feeling of constraint...would it ever be, would it ever want to be, but should it ever be? Nothing to come from it other than...knowing now it was at his fingertips makes the wanted more desirable and yet further distant, now guarded. A fantasy metamorphosed from that moment, brought about by a glance, by the touch that never awarded by itself.
Legs parted and thoughts carried away now built up to a mountain of self pleasure...thinking of that near miss of...what...was needed...begging now of the cold harsh chains...no emotional guilt restrains...dripping of...dripping between lips...what leads to the zipped pointed black heels...slip of the hand, slip of the tongue, stroke of fingertips. To the ground...the wrists are...the cold hard surface is where the warmth surrenders to words of...dripping, kissing, restraining...new strength, bruises of desire from the shot that got away.
~Me
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1 comment:
the frustration and the passion comes accross brilliantly in this writing
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