Compulsion

I can feel you, right above my skin, the warmth

of your need makes me shake a spearmint

breeze, that hollow ache is there, in the pit

of my stomach, waiting to be filled by you over

and over again. I close my eyes, darkness giving way

to images of you caressing me. The smell of your

skin, the taste of the sheets, my hands reach out, wishing

you were within reach. I feel the tightness release and

tighten again, wanting something to hold onto. Imagining

the moan you would make, brings my own, it’s been torture.

Images of things I haven’t yet seen plague me, raise my

curiosity like the arch I want you to put in my back. A

few touches have me scorched. Any time I remember

where your hands met skin, it sweats, burns even. I

feel it like a trail of hard earned sweat running

between my breasts and into my navel. I feel it

like hands pressed against my hips to keep me

angled just right on the bed. My thighs

shake, remembering the sight of your

head between them, imagining the

feeling of what could have come

from those lips. My toes point

giving me more movement

to arch, to reach you, to

reach what I want to

feel; to release.

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