I wake up breathless, sweating and panting, with my hand between my legs.
I dont know how long my index and middle fingers have been moving lazily inside me.
I taste myself greedily, imagining its his mouth Im tasting myself on.
Daria Shevtsova
Kissing him has become one of my favorite pursuits.
I want to go back to the dream I was just having.
Its a kind of hypnosis; an unordinary arousal.
This holds true even inside my dream.
He picks me up, places me on the edge of his bed and gets his on his knees.
I like being this way.
Open and exposed to him.
He swallows me like sustenance, theres an actual roar emanating from his chest from his insatiable hunger.
I grab onto him by his hair, my grip locked, and then I feel it coming on.
I could quarry and lay down stones to build a temple for that tongue.
Im buzzing, no, fuck that, Im a blazing forest fire.
I dont know how long we stay like this.
So here we are, and here I am, moaning unintelligible sounds and screaming his name.
I touch myself the way I wish he was touching me.
Im hungry for him.
I want all of him taking up space inside all of me.
I wish he was here.
Im lying alone in the dark coughing up water and drowning in lust.
Im tasting myself imagining what it must be like to drink rain from his lips.
Im writing up lists in my febrile mind of all the many things I want to do with him.
And yes, my want for his skin on my skin is a snarling beast.
And yes, he kisses me the way I want to be kissed.
Its been so long since I havent minded someone touching me throughout the night.
I dont escape him.
He talks in his sleep, I listen closely, but sometimes its in another language.
I dont know what hes saying, but I love the sound of it.
Like him, I talk in my sleep, too.
I wonder if I too, speak in my native language.
I find it comforting, the sound actually relaxes me and puts me to sleep.
Maybe its just him.
Its a thought I find terrifying.
I dont want him to be the inspiration behind anything Im writing.
I dont want to be thinking of him.
Yet here we are.
