2 min read

Tamara de Lempicka — - The Pink Tunic — — 1927

There is no clear line between having and being taken. In the dance of love, we take our turn to lead and to follow. There are moments when I dream of having him at my feet. Begging to be taken. Imploring with his eyes, for things he’s never dared to ask. I make him wait, as if it required thought and careful contemplation.

Times when, with tongue and fingers, he is mine. Times when I command firmly and he submits. On all fours, my hands strong and spreading, my tongue darting, touching him everywhere but there. I watch him pulse and throb, hear his breath ragged and rasping with need and desire. Let him feel my wetness as I grind against him, using him. I let him touch himself for a moment, greedy with my own need, and then stop him stingingly. Turn him over and rub my swollen lips over his face until he shines with my juices. Give him the tight bud of my desire to suck. Bend down and open the slit at the tip of his cock, his tiny faceless mouth, and guide him to my clit, not as if it were a tiny cock but to have the most intimate of touches. Marked, claimed, taken. I know then how a man is spent.

He is so easy to lead this way. The merest suggestions; like a horse long accustomed to his rider, he responds to my inclination before I give it voice. He listens for desire’s echoes in my heartbeat, he seeks the patterns in passion’s waves where they touch my eyes. Reading me like a sailor scanning sky and tide.

He writes me in moments snatched from his day. I read his words and feel my breath quicken, my heartbeat fills my chest and almost closes my throat, and that awakening, that delicious sensation of want between my legs. The thought of his tongue there, his fingers sliding in. My god, he fills me. Just a phrase, a glimpse in my mind, and my whole being bends and sways. My breath caught, time coiled back on itself. I watch as my nipples stiffen.

I am thinking of the stubble on my face against the soft skin of your breasts, between the globes of your ass, my tongue searching out, seeking, feeling you lift against me, pressing down to have something, anything rub against your clit and your slit, pressing up to have your ass rimmed and licked with my darting, curious tongue, desperate for more. I hear you plead and whimper for more and yet neither of us wants to stop the delicious exploration.

You know I’ll turn you over.

You know my tongue will circle your clit, my lips will suckle you there.

You’ll rub your pussy up and down, bathing my face, fucking my nose, engulfing me.

You know soon I’ll rise above you, hold you down, arms above your head, your nipples between my teeth, my cock between your legs, just inside your parted, swollen lips.


The question unspoken but real between us: “Who will move first?”


Tongues teasing. imploring, begging as our mouths indulge in what our souls so yearn for.

“Now,” you whisper scream. “Now.” Fingers become claws as you bring me in.

Oh, the pleasure of each deep thrust, grinding hips to hips.

Your bones clashing against mine.

Sometimes hard and fast and wild.

Sometimes deep and smooth and slow.

The head of my cock popping out of you,
like some ocean creature playing in the waves,
rising falling, leaping free before plunging in again.
Eyes lost in some inner contemplation,
we exist no longer separately but as one, vibrating as clear as a struck chime,
mouths together, coming in a single wordless scream.

What words do we use for this moment?
Out of control, we say.
Or, wild with passion.
Neither is true.
Control has been given outside ourselves.
Passion, like a dark and ancient goddess, invited in.
Oh, to know you feel me rise and tighten,
feel me grip and clench,
feel the spasms shake us.
Come lover

Let go


And we do,
dying for a moment
then reborn.
Dying in your arms, in pieces cast out,
then reformed.

Whispering, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Leave a Reply