Wilder

There are some things I can’t explain. Like how he pushes me against the wall and growls how much he wants me and then after he’s had his fill, turns over and falls asleep. Like how his flaming touch causes my skin to crackle and peel away like burning parchment curling into delicate, black wisps of ash.

There are some things I’d kill to know. Like how his lips meld pain and pleasure into one luscious sensation of pure, galvanic ecstasy, causing rumbling moans to issue forth from my expectant, gaping maw. Like how his long, slender fingers know how to touch me so that my vision leaps from my person to roll on the boiling surface of the sun.

There are some things I wish I could learn. Like how to force his body to spasm in unchained delight so that his gray eyes loll back to hide within creamy white doors—how to graze my teeth along his torso as he does mine so that his core will tremble with aggravated anticipation.

There are some things he whispers. His voice, like cream between my legs. His breath, the inducer of my drunken reverie, seeping like some nocuous gas into my lungs--burning, tearing.

There are these moves he makes. His limbs are conductors of music, like streaming hands along a vast expanse of harp. His being combs the air with preternatural grace as he walks, thrusts, licks, bites, comes. His presence is warm chocolate dripping on the tongue. His mouth, his sex complete with darting, raping tongue. His sex, his mouth demanding my undivided attention with its constant and firm commands for worship. My own lips are inadequate to form coherent words, the syllables powdered flecks of white on nascent crests of violent waves in my mind.

There are some things I crave even in the temporary death of sleep. His nails slicing interstices of linear scarlet down the tensed muscles of my naked back, his knee beneath my sex, parting my inner thighs. His legs, his hands, his back, chest, tongue, feet, hair. I devour him every time I look at him. I take him. Take him with me behind my eyelids to ravage him within the gray brain matter encased within my skull.

There are some memories evoked. Metal containing my wrists conjures the sting of lashes across my thighs. Satin before my eyes twists my lower half into writhing fits of agony as an invisible tongue laps and sucks at my most sensitive of places. Leather binding my ankles summons feelings of momentary delicious abandonment and strips of black hide tickling misleading pathways along my ass. Crushed red velvet restraining my limbs is a mystery. My neck throbs with teeth it has yet to meet, bruises with oil puddles of color before being sucked by pillowed lips. My insides recoil then contract, involuntarily displaying their need to be filled and sated with his long, pulsing heat.

There are some positions he likes me in. Like a master peering down at his adoring slave, he views me as I pleasure him.

There are some places he likes to take me in. How his mind creates his fantasies, I’d never have the breath to question.

There are some sounds he loves to hear. As my mouth wraps around his name as it would around his cylinder of flesh, he leans back his head to fill me. As I scream in pain, his mouth curls to lovingly mock me. My whimpers for him to stop cause his hand to rise ten more times.

There are some things he hasn’t done to me yet.