It didn’t matter how often they made love, how often they had sex, how often they fucked because each and every time he saw her naked it was like seeing her for the first time all over again. Perhaps such feelings could be attributed to his youth, the fact that they didn’t see each other all that often or maybe it was just lust but it didn’t matter.
Perfection was the way he could best describe her, not the perfection of some magazine or popular idea but the perfection in the idea of a creator. Society termed people underweight, overweight, too curvy, not curvy enough, and all points in-between but what mattered to him was her and how she appeared in his minds eye, how she felt in his big hands, the way she conformed to his body, everything else was useless nonsense. She was perfection beneath his fingertips.
Their love life was a myriad of things, but anything besides boring. She was looking at him with those eyes, eyes that betrayed a great sense of intelligence both inward and outward. Awaiting his touch she was becoming impatient. Tonight was not about exercising her dominance over him or his over her, it was about need and desire. They hadn’t seen each other in awhile and they both wanted each other, though individually they both believed they wanted the other more than the opposite.
His eyes moved up over the her petite feet, over the slightly curved calves to the graceful incline of her hips to the cinch of her waist, up to the swell of her beautiful breasts to that face that so commanded his thoughts all too often. As his eyes moved so to did those large hands until they rested lightly on her throat, a touch that meant everything between them, control, trust, lust.
Then I decided to write a little more.
Her throat made a guttural primal sound as his hand traveled over the pale warm flesh of her body. The sound was pleasing in many ways, it spoke of her desire for him, the need for his touch, and the pleasure at having received it. That sound meant everything to him, it had become her mating call for him and it never ceased to work.
It stemmed from when they had first met. He had taken her to a movie, she had been talking to him for years but this was the first time they had truly met in person, until this point they were merely two thoughts digitally connected by their mutual interests in various things. But now they were together, though it was nothing more than a dusty movie theatre that smelled of stale popcorn and even staler soda. As they watched the move he had casually reached over and placed his large warm hands on the cold pale skin of her exposed neck and involuntarily she had uttered that sound, the sound that would forever entrance him. Neither spoke a word but both knew that there was a spark of something between them more powerful than simple words.
Now as she uttered that sound yet again he felt a need to breed her. It was amazing how much happens without realizing it, how much works with and against you in those lust filled moments. The smell of her sex, her wetness filling the small bedroom, the sound of it as his fingers slowly explored her wetness. Between sound and smell there are few words that could ever compare to those twin powers.
Nothing will ever be able to move a man as much as smell, it can bring back the fondest memories, perfume the air and control his mind, and bring him to his very knees if used properly. No matter what that smell is, it can be something as simple as baking cookies or as complex as the primal wetness of his lovers scent filling his nostrils.
The sound of her wetness, the sounds of their mating, the audible noise of moans, groans, and gurgles are only a step below the sense of smell. No musical instrument or song can ever hope to match the sound of a unique mating call or the sound of passionate love making.
She was his and was showing it to him in every possible way, even if she didn’t know it. He was taking time to savor those sounds, those smells, and the sight of his own perfection that was her incredible body. The longer he waited the more sounds she made, the more she writhed in front of him, and the stronger her scent became. Its in moments like these that time simply becomes relative, becomes only a perception and where immortality becomes real.
So then I decided to do one more lol
Anger, one of the worlds finest and purest of emotions. Its taste in the mind is that of a hot cider, warm and fiery with a pleasant taste. It clouds the mind of better judgment, but feels clear and fluid.
His eyes burned into her, deep brown eyes of fury that threatened to sear the flesh from her bones. She had made the mistake of ignoring him and nothing infuriated him more, nothing drove him to madness quite like being ignored. But why? Why had she ignored him she wondered, feeling herself sweat beneath the heat of his stare. Was it on purpose to get him to show he cared or was it merely a mistake?
Every muscle told him to teach the wretched bitch a lesson, to teach through pain and misery, to make her wear the marks of her mistakes. But even as the anger flooded his mind the better part of him would have none of it. Pain was what she craved, she enjoyed it, but turn about is fair play in such games. He simply arched an eyebrow and smoothed a hand along her bare shoulders.
She looked up at him with a pleading gaze, practically asking to be taught her lesson, begging to shown the error of her ways. As he touched her, that guttural moan left her lips and her flesh warmed beneath his touch. She expected it would get much warmer if the anger in those deep brown eyes had anything to say about it.
He too felt the reaction in her flesh, in her eyes, in her soul. But no pain came, he would inflict no harm upon her. It would only giver her what she wished and would give him little satisfaction. No, he would give her what she gave him, he would ignore her. With an evil little smile he patted her head, turned on his heel and shut the door behind him.
And that was pretty much it. I find it theraputic in a way, exciting sometimes, and other times it just feels creative.