I want you to know the need in me. My hands in your hair as I kiss along the line of your spine towards the shield-shaped muscle that graces your lower back. I want you mildly embarrassed but aglow as I edge inexorably towards the cleft of your ass and the tops of your thighs.
You know what I need down there, and you know it’s a need. I want you to know, I want you to resist and force me to kiss all the way down your legs, the backs of your knees and the soles of your feet. And then, that route exhausted, I want you to turn on the bed and bid me return along the pike of your shapely, pale legs.
I want you to know the need in me. I want you to feel slightly alarmed at the slavish devotion I have developed to the task of tasting every square millimetre of your perfect body and the troubled circuitous route I have forced on myself until I find your knees and your thighs and your own hands now in my hair. I want you to part your soft toned thighs to allow me taste the warmth of your flesh, and I want you to anticipate the feeling of my face, not quite freshly shaved, against the tops of your legs and my breath, warm and shallow now, on the folds of your vulva.
I want you to know the need in my mouth. I want you to know the joy in my tongue as I first kiss your lips and ease myself between, inside, betwixt, beneath, and the giddy thrill I have on tasting your slippery, gently musky wetness. There is no drug like this. A hundred gushing thrilling orgasms have been spilled remembering it, and none have compared.
I don’t know how it feels to be you in this moment; I know how it feels to be me, allowed in, allowed to touch and feel and taste your sex and lose myself in the scents and sensations of you.
In that moment, you are everything; I worship and adore you, I want desperately to make you feel the thrill you place in me. I will never really know.