Longing...

You came out of the bathroom, jeans unzipped, panties showing, careless. You always are. You never see what I see, never feel what I feel. We could call it lesbian bed death, but we never had lesbian bed life for real...just scatterings of blazing hot fires here and there, loads of oxygen, quick to light up, quick to burn out. We've discussed it so many times it is pointless to do it again. One of us has to give and it is generally me...giving up. I love you so deeply, you fill so many never before touched parts of my soul, that I cannot let you go. But I see and I long for...

You stretch out beside me to talk, jeans still unzipped, your oddly bronzed skin and slightly rounded belly. I am allowed to touch, chastely, and I do, whenever I can because I hunger for your skin. It is spectacular. You worry about your age, how you look, but your body is like that of someone twenty years younger...I know. I've seen them. Your breasts are firm, your skin taught and your ass. Oh baby.

My nights are driven by dreams of sensuality and hard-core sex. The need to let my adult child romp and play freely, to explore, to laugh, to be silly and intense. Well. It simply remains a need. In my heart I've vowed to love no other and so, in some way, must let go of this piece of myself.

Sitting beside my bed is the tin of honey dust I bought awhile back, the cellophane seal still intact. To be allowed to sweetly powder your whole bum with that tiny soft feather duster-may I please? Then may I softly lick it all back off, getting dangerously close to places you will not let me explore? Tease where your ass meets your thigh, that almost-fold. Bite as you know I love to do.

Is it fear? Is it the progression of age? Is it power? I no longer care the reason. I'm tired of pursuing loveless sex that turns out to be so much less than you and I have had in our purely vanilla and rare encounters. And yet the tears fall freely as I write this. I long for you so...to be allowed to love with all of me.

Fantasizing About a Taste of Youth...

What have you done to me? I do not lust indiscriminately (is this true? ok, I mean for "real" people I actually know). So few folks fire up my loins that this painful ongoing middle-aged (yes, I really am) wet need is all the more frustrating.

And then there was you. Unexpected. At first completely not on my radar. Then a flash of a grin, which is killer. A lean over here, a touch there and I realized, like hello?, I've got the hots for this young thing. Granted. You're not as young as others (thank God...that one sucked bad-no irony in this at all).

I digress. Suddenly you are sharing your naughty thoughts with me, how you'd like to take me for a spin, a roll in the hay, get to really know me. Oh shit. Days and days side by side, toying with the idea, culminating in a make out session in the rain in your steamy SUV.

Then you vanished. It's what you do. What you all do. Emotionally-poof...after professing ache and desire for me. After nights of naughty naughty text messages you created to keep me stirred up. Slipped right through my fingers, but I still have the photos, I've seen the art. You have the devil in your eye, my dear. A rare and valuable gift.

I would trace that ink with my fingertips, pull on the cold metal. I don't care where it's at. All I can see is you loose hair, face down, legs spread, me hungry, You let me bite. Hard. I don't have to hold back. Wrists pinned, the tip of my tongue prodding, finding yours, fighting for control. I know you want to control me. Don't you know? You already do. My panties are soaked.

Flipping you over, I'm sure there is some post 70's design mowed into your bush (but please, let there be at least the scantest tracing of hair). You are unafraid of my gaze, hold it until I give, crawl over you, tug at your full breasts, nipples delightfully pierced, ink all over you. The noises, the wrestling...can we please do it for days, weeks, on end? I need to burn this desire up and away so it can rest.

I spread you, what a firm pink bud. I just look. So long you start to squirm and thrash about, calling my name, getting nearly angry. I lick my finger and trace so lightly you can barely feel-but you quiet and I get your attention. Explore your opening, moist, with my finger, go barely inside, tease. You are so impatient. You flip me over, climb on top, punish my mouth with your kiss. Snarling, you pull my hair and reach down, fingers inside me, deep, curling, fucking me. You step away and come back wearing the most delightful equipment-like you were born with it. Full swagger. I'm not surprised. Climb on top baby. I need this.

And you give, fucking me full out, not holding back, not being kind. I grab the vibrator, urging you on, daring you. I'm such a fool. You are up to any challenge. The cock bangs my g-spot and then suddenly you are still, wedged deep, so you can watch me come. My back arches and you begin moving again, urging me on. I come so hard as you get off, simply from fucking me.

Soon, though, this tenderness I feel for you overcomes me and you are curled quietly in the soft light, telling me stories of your childhood, nestled into my arms. Thank you. You were just what I needed. (May I have you again?)