I was thinking yesterday.
I was marveling. At how much it kept getting better. Over time.
I was wondering what I missed about it.
If I had to pick a thing. If I just couldn't say...EVERYTHING.
Is it your moaning?
That I miss most.
Or the tight pink peak of your nipples when you're aroused.
Is it the trashing?
Or the lightly red hair there. The musky smells. The sweetness. The simple joy in just laying my face there. Before I even taste you.
Is it the tension, deep in my belly? As soon as I put my hands on you. The wetness that forms between my own legs, as I begin to run my hands over your hips.
I wonder if it is the first breath I take when you're laying in front of me. Or the tiny bites up your thighs.
The first touch. The first moment my tongue touches you there. And I stop. Breathing deeply. Because it never disappoints. Because it's always better than the last time. And then the deep tasting. My eagerness. As though there won't be enough of you for me to have.
Is it burying my tongue there? Nibbling. Holding you between my tongue and upper lip. Keeping my hands on you. Touching you places where there is more of you to enjoy than meets the eye.
Is it how my tasting dispells myths. How you like to be laved everywhere. EVERYwhere. The outer and inner spaces. The space between. Your shivering, and writhing beneath my mouth. The sound of you...the rhythm of our call and response.
Is it putting my fingers inside as I'm tasting? And feeling you there. All of you. Incomprehensibly tight and open at once. Wet to dripping, wanting. Giving me so much in your surrender. More than I knew to find there. More than I knew to take. More. Than ever.
I don't want you less. I haven't forgotten. I remember. All of it.
What is one to do? When memories are like torture and the future lays ahead without solutions?
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