Yes, I really do….
Yes, I really do….
I fantasise about you finding me, about you hunting me. It comes about when I am around others, where I am walking through busy streets. I feel my eyes travel over the bodies of others, feel their eyes travel over me.
I imagine that you are one of them, that somehow I become aware of your eyes on my body. That somehow, you’ve found me, and that you are travelling towards me. That you’ve removed the last of the barriers between us, and you’re coming to get me.
You’re only a few feet away, walking behind me, and though you say nothing, your eyes never leave me. I feel them travel over my hair, my curves, taking me in as if you already own me. I touch my hair nervously as I walk, somehow feeling your stare, feeling you near me.
I can’t be with you. I can’t give in to you, you own me too much. I twist and turn down streets and lanes, hoping to cast your intensity off my skin. But instead, I merely cast off the crowd rather than you, and even though I start to run, I can’t escape you.
I can’t escape you.
You’re right behind me, right with me, and as I try to get indoors, you grab my wrist and spin me towards you. I don’t even get the chance to speak as you capture me, capture my mouth with your own lips. Oh, kisses, your kisses, I’m swept away by the softness of your lips, the faint bristle of your face, your hands pushing my hips into yours…
Before I know it, I’m pressed up against the door, my hands raised and held there by one of yours. Your grip holds them there, and I groan slightly at the pain. You growl in response, a growl that travels down my own throat, into my heart and soul, and you grip them even tighter. With your other hand, you cup my face as you kiss me, then let it travel over my neck and down to my breasts. You rip open my jacket to free my breasts, and as I gasp you growl a commend.
“Don’t move your hands from there!” I obey, as your hands travel all over me. I obey and stay utterly still as your hands grip my breasts like a man starved, as you pull my skirt up and slither your hands between my thighs, between my wet thighs, as you discover me wet and quivering and wanting you, oh, so much wanting you. I don’t move them because I don’t want to, I am so yours to command.
You move me further away from the door, into the shadows, as you move into me. Steadily, with no concern for my own pleasure, you move your enormous cock into me, and the heat and the size spread me with almost a hint of pain. You’re delicious. You are, you conquer me before you even move. But then you do; your hips only focusing on keeping yourself going as long as you can. You don’t want to rush, you’ve imagined this over and over, you have no idea when you’re going to get to realise this dream again, and so you set a pace much, much slower than I would.
It is impossible to hide myself in this moment. It is impossible to not look up at your face as you concentrate on taking me, and I know my eyes must look gullible and foolish. I can only show adoration right now, I can only show no discernment or poise. I want you. I want you, I want you, I want you, and your taking me is exactly what is happening. You’re taking me as I want, with no freedom on my part, no clarity as to your feelings, nothing is safe here. I’m here for you, and my heart sings at this moment.
You’re growling, and you can’t help it, we can’t help it, you grow faster and harder within me. Tears touch my eyes at the sensation as my legs spread wider apart, and you grip my hips so hard I know I’m going to bruise. There’s nothing to do but let your lips touch my neck as I throw my head back, and feel you nearly scream against my skin as you cum.
You cum, yelling, it nearly breaking you, as you pound into me like a man obsessed. You collapse against me, all spent and exhausted, with nothing soft or kind or wise about you.
You snarl, “I will always be allowed to fuck you,” and your voice is so angry and malevolent that I frantically nod, afraid and owned and agreeing all at once. And in my fantasy you slide out of me, leaving me there in the shadows with my legs spread, my heart open, my heat still unsated, as you disappear.
And I think some part of me will stay like that, with legs parted and cunt ready, until you come back and take me all over again….
Seriously. Listen to this.
I wrote this, in that this post was the inspiration for it.
I am amazed by how much passion this contains, how intimate and erotic and arousing this is.
Good God, but this is a sublime exploration of sensuality, of intimacy, of arousal and desire and gratification. By nothing more than the sound of a man’s voice.
I’ve sent several private messages via Reddit urging/begging for more audios, but no reply. Amazingly, begging isn’t attractive as a ploy, but also, if he is who I suspect he is, then he’s become busy lately.
Nevertheless, this is remarkable, if only in its striking nature. There’s no denying how wonderful this is.
Here’s to you, Bourbon_Neat.
Tonight, with the moon so strong and the spirit so brave, I raise an invocation.
Take a breath, please, you who is reading this, and focus. No, really, focus.
I hereby raise an invocation. A voice of intent, calling out over the hills and the valleys, calling to the highest mountains and the deepest caves.
I call out to the sisters who walked the ways before me, to the mothers who bore before me, to the warriors who fell behind me.
I call to the heart beats that were beating before me, to the blood that pulsed in earlier veins, to those that heard and sang and danced in dust to which they have since returned to.
I call to the coldest streams, to the driest deserts, to the darkest forests, to the wildest seas, I call to the populated cities and all the souls they contain.
Let Lust’s spirit rise and walk in all of them, let the ground contain Lust’s feet as they walk to me, let the air part as Lust gathers form to me, let each ray shine brighter on Lust as it moves to me, let each minute of each time bring Lust to visit me, and let my face shine clear with Lust’s mission, so that I carry it before me out into the world, and give the world to Lust once again.
Just a dreadful, horrible sicking feeling, that starts in the belly? If I don’t sate it, it reaches my skull and I can feel little shivers of heat on my skin. If I still refuse to satisfy it, it becomes suppressed, until I’m just generally unhappy.
I have poor joints from years of dancing, and even though I’m still in my thirties I have to go to physio. The most wonderful young man curls his hands in my inner thighs and comments on my tight muscles, while I try not to pant. Today he parted my thighs with the familiarity of a lover, and now I am all out of joint.
Tell me what you would do to me.
Don’t sleep well.
I live alone. No immediate family, no friends who live nearby. And certainly no one who lives like me. I’m fairly sure that most people who know me believe me to be practically asexual. They see the face and hear the accent, and believe me to be cold and dispassionate.
And social media, which I’m active on, lacks the tactile permanence I seem to find myself wanting these days. I find myself wishing for some kind of correspondence, some overseas pen pal that would send me long and involved letters, black ink spilling out thoughts over cream paper. I wish to know another again, but without the inevitable intrusion that seems to be an obligation when a woman asks a man into her life. (One of my last lovers tried to tell me where I was going wrong in my writing; seeing as he had never read my work under any of my nom de plumes, it was not welcomed.)
An element of correspondence, not explicitly erotic, but not removed from it either. But I know that wishing for such things does not make them so. Such matters must be grown from gentle things, and nourished until they evolve into the heart’s wishes, moving on to whatever maturity their nature will allow.
Could I be lonely? Me?