Darling, I’ve an idea for a game we could play, the next time we are together. Here is the properties list:
1 jar of honey
tray of ice
Let’s begin in the morning. If you can get over the mountains before rush hour, I’ll leave my door open for you (as I am open for you, to you), and stay in bed, hopefully asleep, until you wake me.
Your hands brushing against the small of my back, then pressing against me. A reassurance; yes, I am here, you can wake up, feel me with you. Then your gentle, eager fingers curving against my ass and sweeping around my thighs, skirting my cunt and sliding up my belly, cupping my breasts as you slip into bed with me. I tangle my legs with yours, and snuggle into your hands and arms as you cradle me.
Later in the day, after you’ve woken me up, we could set up the game – pinecones nearby, candle and matches on the floor near the bed, ice and honey on the table. Once my eyes are fully open, we can take a pinecone and roll it across me: gently, easily, pressing just hard enough to make diamond-shaped dents in my skin, the kind that vanish seconds after they turn pink. We could start at the top of my thigh and roll up, veering off course above my belly button to gently mark the skin between my breasts and at the base of my neck.
My legs are opening: starting at my toes, which turn out to grip the blankets and sheets and pillows, and then slowly, deliberately moving up my calves, past my knees and into my thighs, my body spreads itself by tightening, exactly as my cunt would suck and tug you into me. Finally, my legs wrapped about your hips, your breath excruciatingly tender on my neck and at my ear, I can press the sensitive – now moist – skin between my ass and cunt against the base of your cock. escort bayan gaziantep
After we have exhausted this first possibility of the pinecone, I want to add honey: you can drip the honey over me, streak my sides with it using a fingertip, leave droplets trailing across my hips. Then use the pinecone to move it. I’d love to see a pinecone diamond track outlined with honey, wrapping around my hips, up my belly and around the side of my breast.
The last time we spoke, I brought up a word I’d discovered recently; “manscaping” flew out of a character’s mouth during a rapid scene in one of my shows, and the word had struck me as delightful and provocative. What kind of scaping can we do with the pinecone and honey? Is it simply a reshaping that the word refers to, or a refining, a kind of essentializing?
We are wet, pressed together, cock to cuntlips and shoulders to chest, ankles knotted together in the sheets, hands curled about each other in fast, sweet metaphor for our bodies and our imaginary bodies. Your mouth is attached to my neck, the soft place beneath my earlobe that makes my cunt tighten.
I pull my hands away from yours, my language still muzzy from sleepiness and warmth, and say,
“Please – inside me – I want to feel you –”
The head of your cock breaches my cunt, slickly penetrating me while your hands seek out my arms, then my neck, fingers carefully circling my neck and then knotting into my hair.
My mouth, an equal-and-opposite mirror of my cunt, opens, but I can’t speak. The pulling on my hair and pressing against my back and ass drive me down onto your shaft, and the silky ridge under the head is inside me. Your groan is like an admission of truth, and still you thrust up into me, exhaling your agreement with my need for you.
Perhaps this: once the pinecone and honey have traveled across me, we can begin a more rigorous scaping. I want you to watch me light the candle, and use the burnt match, once it has cooled, to lightly mark my skin. It will disintegrate against me, roll off onto the floor, but when you start to tip the candle over me, we can save some of the marks by encasing them in warm wax.
You can leave a trail of small, perfectly round or slightly oval droplets of wax, beaded across my belly. The burn marks from the hot wax can be soothed with ice and your lips, your tongue. I’d like to let the water chill my skin the smallest bit, and then heat at your touch. I want the water to rise off me in a breath of steam when you tell me –
The first pull out happens too soon, and I writhe against you as if my cunt could reach out and snuggle you back in. My hands are shaking already; I’m closer than I wanted to be, but can’t stop myself. My fingers have curled with white-knuckled tightness around the bars of my bed, and with this leverage I open myself and thrust back onto you, into the warmth of your chest and belly and around the sweetness of your cock.
The growl begins deep in your throat, rolling past your lips and transforming into a kiss as you begin to THRUST.
You know, hearing you say it is an orgasm in itself; a little death, a little birth, a little divinity, in our joining. That’s why I’m giving you props. They are all really pens, different ways to write the phrase on me, in my skin, a way to create ghost-like tattoos of yourself. I’ve arranged them around my bed, and have written you a note, left underneath the pinecone.
Your cockhead meets my cervix, a kiss, internal, to match the kiss, external, that our mouths have locked into. My tongue begins to penetrate, slips past our lips and into your mouth, a yin and yang image in our bodies for a brief moment as we fuck into each other.
We start writing the choreography of the fuck with our points of connection: mouths, cunt, cock, ass, fingers to nipples, hand to neck. This is what they meant by ‘partnering’ in dance; being able to follow another person’s body, the slightest nudge or gesture leading you along. My lips brush yours, your hand presses against the nape of my neck, I arch into you and you FUCK me up to the hilt of your cock.
The ripples begin.
They start gently, at the lips of my cunt, and small tug, a little more blood in the inner lips, and then my muscles find the ridge beneath your cockhead and pulse once, twice around you. Then my insides fist up, squeezing, milking, and I turn my face towards yours, finding a way to penetrate your eyes with mine, and say,
“Finish me, darling – please – I love you –”
“I love you.”
Nearly light outside; I’ve unlocked the door, and laid down in bed, hoping that the warmth and comfort will outweigh the anticipation and convince my body to sleep. I hear your footsteps as they travel across the cement and then grass, then cement again on the far side of my front door: I freeze and relax thirty-seven times in a breath, and then hear the door handle turn.
“I love you –”
And I’ve come – with you, on you, around you; for a fraction of a second, I’ve died and come into your body instead of mine, and can feel myself squeeze my cock.
When we settle into our own bodies – one for each of us, the way we began, except for a flush on my face and a charming, open-mouthed grin on yours – I reach up between the bars and wrap my fingers around the candle. Cool, dry, as-yet unlit; the matches are taped to the side, and the wick is still stiff with wax and plasticky white.
“Let’s nap – later, we can –”
For DB, from C.