Suits my mood...
Thoughts of you plague me today. Hands so masculine treading across the soft rolling terrain of my body. Fingertips supple, dancing independently across the land. You’d kiss deeply into my flesh, gripping me ravenously with your hands. I’m going to let you have me.
Picture me with those overworked eyes, the strained irises and tense pupils. You grace the threshold and I will grace your sight. Upon my approach, I kiss you passionately; my traveling hands wander underneath the shirt I carelessly dishevel. My hands ripple over your defined stomach, cascade over your chest. Your delicate patches of hair transition to smooth, silky skin. You are the accustomed alpha, and I the lioness rendering you cornered. I’d remove your shirt and press my skin against yours; my breasts trail down the length of your stomach, as I set myself upon my knees. You, standing before me once so rigid from your day, now unsteady at the knees. I’d glance upward, meeting your eyes in a gracious manner. You, my King, my beloved companion. I, honored to serve.
Your slacks are taught and retraining you. I succeed in removing them. I take you into my mouth and appreciate you. I am slow, passionate; you are deep, consumed as a palatable delicacy. Your hands are tangled in my brown hair, delicately bringing me further down onto you. You are a most delicious feast. I seek to immerse myself, gluttonous.
I cease, guiding you from the threshold into the dining room. You need to rest your weary legs. Facing you, I grace your lap, adoringly embrace your head and bring you to my chest. Sliding down the length of you, I find myself flush. I have been starved without you. My hair dresses the peaks of your shoulders, fingers dimpling into your back and thighs balmy against yours. Your stubble is coarse against my smooth breasts, your rigid sex buried deep inside me, silky and permissible. We rise and fall, as the breath from our heaving chests. We merge as if a singular sexual being. I worship you, a rapacious beast. We meander, we warp, we writhe. We, the vessels of mutual gratification; I exist to prove your muse.
The manifestation of my daytime fantasies is the rumble of the garage door. The culmination of my desires is the jingling of your keys. I have never mastered the art of patience, yet you leave me waiting. You leave me wanting.