Why can’t you say that I’m beautiful?
A question that I ask before I bow before you
I bow before this lanky, all legs and limbs man. Like he’s a Greek statue that I’m going to pray to for deliverance.
We had a give and take before this point. I was hesitant to give him what he asked for. There was a denial to myself what I greatly desired. It seemed almost too easy how he ripped his shirt off and pulled his shorts down.
There it was, standing fully at attention like human flesh turned into concrete by need.
I slide down before him. I love the feel of the carpet beneath my knees. The submission I give into as he leans back and I move forward. He’s a man I willingly give my body to for him to bend me over, forward, and pick up to fuck me every which way.
“I think many women may want to hear they’re beautiful, but I don’t need it,” I say as I take his beautiful erection in my hands.
My inside of my hand is filled to overflowing, unable to close around the base.
“I only tell a woman she’s beautiful if I’m with her,” he responds.
I pause before my act of service. This interests me how he says this. Since we both explicitly agree that we can’t deal, or essentially give what is needed, with a relationship.
That we are only an impassioned act like what we are now. We are limbs being forced over heads while he pounds into me and I pant in rhythm with his thrusts.
But, I do tell this man that he is quite handsome. Or intelligent, inherently interesting and quite a conundrum.
He feels like he needs to restrict this affection as we remove our clothing from sticky skin. I can feel him distancing himself further. With each entangling of our bodies he seems careful not to kiss my skin. It’s as if I can burn him somehow.
While I draw closer to him, touching, running fingertips over his back after he finishes on me and pants out a few ‘wow, okay.’
I’m mesmerized by this man who wants to take on the world by himself. Who wants to push everyone away, including me, because he’s flawed. And he sees the flaws within himself. He admits his weaknesses, and how his life just feels so incredibly… fucked up right now.
I wonder why it matters so little to me the verbal validation of my desirability, beauty, to get me to open my legs and mouth for him.
My tongue runs along the edge of his erection at a torturing pace of slowness. Before that I kissed his abdomen and bit lightly at the skin. Making a hot, wet trail to that essential part I can’t help but to engulf once I see it in front of me.
It’s a battle of wills I always lose. I enjoy losing to if I get to overfill my mouth with this hard, immovable and delectable piece of him.
You may not give me the words that I’m beautiful but your erection says everything. Your body says it all as it responds to my bobbing up and down with little moans escaping the edges of your substantial girth.
I can smell that spiciness of your skin, the herbaceous depth of it. It’s as if you are next to my face like that one time you nipped my chin.
Or the other time, one of our first trysts, where you placed tentative kisses on my throat.
I don’t need your words even though you won’t share them unless you are in a relationship with someone. Because in this moment you are the most present with me ever. There is no other, no outside distractions, only us in this moment.
We are fully here, in our bodies experiencing every wave, tremor, and aftershock of pleasure.
I’ve never met someone who owns my body with such never ending thrusts. We both give in, our breath coming together in gasps and moans.
Your body tells me every secret you try to withhold from me, but I’ll let you believe it’s still a secret.