Whatever It Is, I'm Yours

I don't need candy and chocolates or other ridiculous symbols of consumer culture romanticism. What I do need is your slow, easy touch. The feel of your fingertips as you brush the hair from my forehead and replace it with a kiss.

Ambient mood lighting? Fancy vintages? You can scratch them off your list. I'll take you, across the table from me, holding my hand while we talk about anything, everything. The things that make you smile and move in your seat and pull your hand from mine so you can gesture wildly while you describe things I don't really understand. And I can't hide how much I enjoy your enjoyment.

Photo courtesy of Call Me Balthazar. You can purchase a copy of this print here.

I don't need candles or music. I need the smile on your face and the strength of your arms wrapping me in a hug. I want the scent of your skin and the ticklish wisps of hair that graze my face as my lips seek your chest, your abs, your cock. I want the weight of your body, your solid form, bearing down on me and claiming whatever it is you seek. Whatever it is, it's yours. I'm yours.

But when you lay me down, or better push me down, I want your tender mercy. I need you to push and pull and pinch and squeeze and fuck me. I need you to push me to the places I can't find on my own. The bright and pleasurable places that light up parts of my brain nothing else can touch.

And when the feeling that burns white hot begins to fade, I need you to hold me, to whisper, to soothe me with kisses and warmth and caresses. Because you're mine.