The fire crackles.
You slip off the clothing covering your legs, let the garments fall and rest around your feet. The heat assaults your bare legs, seeking ingress, and you close your eyes, inhaling deeply, and contemplating what you will do once winter is past, when the rains come.
In the winter, in your house, the urge to venture forth and indulge does not overcome you. Oh, it’s there. You cannot deny that. It’s alive, you can feel it, but quiescent, germinating. The anticipation builds and you let it.
You think about your secret bliss and the heat radiates. Your gut clenches, tingles. The frisson spreads lower and you get hot between your legs. Hot and wet. Your mind fills with heat and images of my cock.
Sometimes it starts slow, an unfurling of wings, this widening of hunger.
And sometimes it takes but a moment. Tinder to a fire.
Fingers tangled in lace, a tightening. Knowing I can feel the leather hugging your curves as I pull each loop methodically, keeping the tension as I work my way to the top, before tying it off.
I like things contained; applying pressure to something contained implies power, controlling a moment when the vessel will no longer be enough to hold.
To picture your wrists caught in my hands; the pulse along your neck, caught between my kiss.
You, rasping, raw with sex and heat, your breath caught in a corset.
When I grip your hips and pull you forward, you love the way you’re brought as a whole, the corset capturing your murdered midriff and tightened torso, while leaving your throat, thighs, and ass free.
I bring your leg up around my waist as I lean you back against the hard, roughened brick wall.
Pressing between your thighs, my eyes on yours, I steal the red rouge from your lips, kissing you slowly, forcefully, opening you, so slowly.
But if I am need unwound and unwinding, then you are pliant, silk soft, and pure hunger itself.
You kiss back and it becomes unclear who is devouring who – just what is caught.
I speak, words, like heaven opening; the parting of my lips splits you like ripened sugarcane. “These aren’t just words,” your thoughts tumbling as you feel my physique climbing inside you.
“They are mirrors. And his mind is filled with them.” You confess inside. You could pull shadows from my eyes, one after another, and watch my gaze go from flamed hazel, through to black, burnt and ash gray, and I would never blink. My eyes fused to your every curve.
And I smile. A warm, giving, wanting smile. A Russian doll of lovers, stacked one inside the other. Lifetimes of finding you. And you collect me, if only to see what is hidden on the other side.