The sexual energy pulsing through me is like a fire hose on full blast, with no firemen to hold it. Snaking and shooting in every direction, hissing and flailing without malice or intent…just wild and pulsing with libido.
Love is submission. Submission is a form of hearing, of listening, when both speak the same language—one is willing to communicate, the other able and willing to hear. I am a submissive. Fulfilment, ecstasy, spiritual, sexual, emotional, lies in the pleasure of the partner. My kink is obedience. Not to anyone, nor everyone, just one.
“Be naked,” she said. And ever so carefully, piece by piece, crease by crease, I turn my adornment into an ordered pile and feel the light on my skin. “You are an accessory to my fantasy, to my desire,” she said. One can but hope.
I knelt before her and summoned my emotion to my skin. A thousand pin pricks. She inserted herself into me, entwining her legs and her body with mine, totally confident in my stillness, that no matter how close she came to me, the electricity of her lips, of her body, would never break the stillness, only increase the frequency. Her energy was a form of magnetic vibration, and one that I could feel and respond to through my skin.
Like tendrils of weaving smoke, I caressed every part of her, as I saw and felt her pores open and speak to me, pore to pore, a million love conversations, whispers and splashing waterfalls, a thousand licks and kisses, no place for words.