His lumbering, laboring frame is felled, the bough of his tree-trunk strength bending slowly, coming closer to claim you with a conspiracy of kisses, carelessly climbing the tenderness inside your thighs.
First the left, and then the right, whispering: “God, you’re so good,” his warm breath, murmuring, mumbling, tumbling with satisfaction and growing impatient for more of you.
Your sighs and groans make their own music in his ears, as his lips kiss and climb the inside of your thigh, all the way up to where the silk and lace of your intimate knickers cling, their caress conspiring to swaddle the swollen, curving cleft, of your gorgeous soft cunt.
All day you’ve been thinking about his hands, how they can be so devious and clever, confident and quick, yet never in haste. Measured and strong, and never too coarse. Blunt fingers and knuckles, only partially broken, worn in with hard and honest work, but never worn out, never clumsy or cruel, always tender and true.
You’ve imagined him molding your body to his will, his hands gripping and smoothing over the soft sculptor’s clay of your frame, coiling you and carving you, admiring you as you yield and stretch to form new figures.
His hands, pressing you out into a Karma Sutra of erotic shapes, ready for a long slow roasting, a tantric baking, fired with a heavenly heat, forged in an earthenware kiln of his own making.
One dream folding over the other, and oh my god, the way these hands of his conspire to fill you, grip you and hold you.
And you’re breathless, certain he somehow knows you were thinking about his hands when you dressed tonight, choosing that tight little scrap of a skirt, paired with those sheer ink-black thigh-high stockings, each topped and loaded with a wide brocade of decorative lace.
Recalling now how you’d imagined the feel of his fingertips brushing up over their pretty, latticed tops, as you’d readied yourself, stretching the sheer of their gossamer over your impossibly long legs and settling them in place.
Blushing inside with how tempted you were to skip with these panties altogether. Guilty and reckless, giddy with his knowing you all too well, and the naked truth of just how much you love to feel free and to be without.
Somehow, you’d resisted the temptation and now you’re thankful, relishing the unraveling, the floral awakening, the sensual sensation of your sex slowly swelling, plump and slick, hidden beneath their satin and silk.
Unwrapping their intimacy, from the inside out, you feel like an invitation opening, hand written, private, your cherished seal breaking open, broken and excited with wanting him. Certain he’ll ruff the silk just a little farther, willing him with your every motion until it’s all you can seem to feel.
But he doesn’t hurry. He defies his own impatience, and yours, choosing instead to attend further to your neglected thighs, until once more you’re moaning and gasping for air, your body claimed in the heat of a frenzied passion. Certain he wants the ash of your remains mixed with his.