"would it be alright if i kissed you?"

"yep, i think that would be nice."

lip action

"nice."

a much more gentlemanly encounter than i've had in recent weeks. but the difference was appreciated, and my stride adjusted with ease.

my nervousness as the night drew to a close was that of a 12-year-old with her first crush. so, your approach, i thought, was fitting. and although my response was less than inventive i was right. 

it was nice.

nice in the more would be nicer kind of way.

that aside, what the fuck's up with nervousness? i'm not 12. it wasn't a date. and i'm not 12.

if it happens again corrective action will be taken, i've no time for this nervous crap. stage fright is one thing, performance anxiety another.

i just want my moment in your spotlight.

it's been a while since i've been here.

an eternity even.

but the wooden seat remembers the curve of my ass, as i slide into my perch atop the stairs.

you move below me, like an echo. less than a memory but more potent than a dream. 

a fantasy.

i watch you circle your territory with back straight, chest taught, brown hair brushing brown eyes.

i can feel those eyes on me, pupils tightening, focus; hard.

as hard as i imagine your arms would be as they lifted me up from this chair. 

but this is a fantasy, and for all i know you're looking at the painting on the wall to the left of my head, or it's the dim lighting forcing your steely squint. because i want you to be looking my way.

because really, i just want.

i must be ovulating.

here i am, at crunch time, up against a wall, staring down the barrel of a gun.
and all i can think about is you.

well not you, exactly.
or...
well yes, it is you in these daydreams. you're there and you're lovely as ever, but what i'm thinking about is not so much about you as fucking you.

about the way you feel and the way you taste, and how you like to taste me.

about the force of your thrusts, and the way i have to brace myself just so

or risk acquiring another storied bruise.

and while i think these thoughts of you, and those things we do, my fingers take your place.

i return to the grind, the faintest scent hovering as i type.

the way your hand rested on my hip was exactly right; firm, with intent. assured. 

that turned me on. 

then your lips were on mine for just a moment. soft and fuller than expected, tasting of whiskey and nicotine, leaving me wanting. there was promise in that kiss, a hint of magic. not of tomorrows or yesterdays or confusing in-betweens, just of passion and the fire it brings.

i wanted more of those kisses. i wanted to hold you down and nibble those perfect lips. to lick and suck, touch and...

i still want you, but time and distance had their way and now is not to be. tomorrow is unknown and full of possibilities. i think this as i fall asleep to thoughts of you and your distant lips, and your hand on my hip. as mine travels to where yours should be.

such sweet fucking dreams.

we met, finally. well kind of anyway...

in my dream last night you had a starring role and boy, you played the hell out of it. artistically closer to the work of seymore butts, than philip seymour hoffman, but i'd give you an award.

any award you want. 

you can have them all.

i like thinking about the sensation of your fingers on my skin. at times it seems that i can feel every curve and swirl in the pads of your fingertips as they brush across my breasts and slide down my spine.

other times your hands are smooth and strong - like a well-crafted paddle - and i long for you to punish me. it's then i ache for you to leave my ass stinging and flushed, a delicious reminder of you.

love bites...

give 'em the boot-leg...

"hang to dry" has a whole new meaning.