It’s sometimes the end of a drought that defines it.

I had pressed dildos and vibrators inside during the past weeks. But there’s nothing like a cock.

No argument from me, although from an entirely different perspective.

The muscles inside stretched to oblige the circumference of his erection, then collapsed themselves against it. It was a snug fit, and I compressed the vagina to make myself even tighter inside. Fingers spidered over his pectorals. The tops of my boots flush with his flank, I held him by the hip. He pushed the cock in until the balls slapped below my cunt and withdrew until just the glans was seated between the lips. The motion was slow and deliberate. I felt the inch by inch slide. I felt the lubrication spilling over from the walls to facilitate the movements within. He fondled my tits while he fucked me. I concentrated on the ticking of the clock in the room, the noises of the birds outside, the exquisite reach of the penis, how thick it was, the fullness within. A cock completed my pussy. He didn’t last long, that first time, in the narrowness of my cunt. A horizontal dance marked the end of the dry season. The semen fell like rain.

It is very nice to have her back and writing.

If this doesn’t sound like the start to some fun, I don’t know what is:

I cover the bed with a beach towel as a precaution. Mister sits on the bed and pushes my knees apart. “If it feels like you need to pee, just go with it,” he tells me. Without warning, he slaps my pussy hard with his open hand. It startles me, but I like it. My pussy instantly feels warm and tingly.

“Put some fingers in,” I suggest, suddenly wanting to be stuffed with cock.

“Nope, we’re doing it this way,” Mister says. “Brings the blood right to the surface, makes it more sensitive.”

The man sounds like he knows what he’s doing.

Thwack. Mister smacks me again and again. I feel a pressure building, my cunt is already wet and waiting. “Stop holding back,” he says. Thwack. “Shit, I’m gonna pee,” I moan. Mister smacks me harder and faster. I try to hold it in. “Let it go,” he orders. I can’t. It feels like I have to piss and I just can’t bring myself to go there.

Mister brings his face close to mine and grabs a handful of my hair. “Listen slut, I told you to squirt. Do it.” He hits between my legs with his free hand. “Do it, let it go,” he hisses between clenched teeth. As he yanks my hair harder, the pressure in my pussy hits critical mass. My whole body feels like it’s teetering on a precipice. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it all in. “Now,” Mister roars.

And letting go, sometimes, is what you need to be ordered to do.

I am eternally in awe of those who craft poetry. I cannot do it, and I find its creation as powerful as the creation of sparkling gemstones.

Eight dark smudges
indelible beneath skin
a quartet nestled
beside each hip bone.

The staggering of words, the linebreaks… all to create artistically with both what is written, and what is not.

Small purple anemones
bloom under my jawline,
in the crook of my arm
and just next to
my left nipple.

Positive and negative, what is present and what is absent, is, to me, poetry.

Close your eyes. Bring the thoughts to breathing— a breath in, held, and then an exhale out. And reminisce:

I can’t be there, in his bed, wrapped in his arms. I can’t be there, so I close my eyes and just imagine it. Remember it, more correctly.

Indulge, a little bit, in the soft sins we commit to memory. After all, these are little more than waking dreams.

His hands wander farther south, loving every inch of me as he whispers sweet nothings into my ears. I’m melting into the moment, not wanting it to end. I feel like I’m turning into a woman [now], like I’ve been a little girl my entire life and didn’t even know it.

He’s dominant in the purest way. He doesn’t tie me up or force me on my back or make demands. He just takes what is his. He moves from behind me and move me to my back, slipping a finger in me. And then, I realize how crazily I want him, how wet I am, how close I am to orgasming already. He got me to that point before even touching my pussy, before even thinking about touching my pussy.

And for the rest of us? Well, a memory not ours can simply be a fantasy. A very good fantasy.

And, so, what if it makes little sense?

It makes little sense this passion for you; this hunger that marks my days and my nights, this craving that racks flesh yielding and soft, this torrent of carnality, sultry sensuality, this yearning that shakes me through to the core.

Oh but sometimes it is nonsense that is the best sense.

Sometimes it is so easy to take something… something that may never have been yours to take in the first place:

I see you.

You’re sitting in the dark, your legs stretched out in front of you, your back propped against a corner of the wall. The telephone cable snakes across the bare floorboards; your right arm is bent, holding the receiver to your ear.

And you are naked.

And once you take it, can you ever really give it back? Would you even want to?

As I stand in the middle of the floor, transfixed by the view through my window and yours, I watch your left hand, lit by a slash of light across your torso and legs, creeping slowly towards the erection standing thick and proud from below the taut muscles on your belly.

Who is it you are talking to, I wonder? Is it a woman? A man? A lover? Someone you desperately wish to have as a lover? Whoever it is, I can tell how much you want them.

Your fingers curl around your shaft, and you begin to stroke. Slowly, at first. Taking your time.  Rubbing the ball of your thumb over the crown, spreading the beads of precum already forming over the tip. Making it glimmer slickly in the sodium light.

Watching really isn’t a crime, is it?