Chapter Five ~ Speak in My Dreams
Time, just watching the time slipping away
Gimme a sign, where do you go when you can't find the way
So we watch and we wait and we crawl and we kneel
If you know who you are then you know how to feel
In time, maybe temptation is all that you need ...
Anticipation is good. Tiny sparks at the top of my spine. Tips of my fingers numb. Skin over muscles feeling like clothing that is too tight. Every movement conscious and cautious. Never too sure if I'm asking too much, wanting too much ... never too sure where that invisible line is and constantly reminding myself to watch for it. Listen to it. Respect it.
So easy to step over.
Yes, the build-up is good.
Touching toys and tools. The metal of a cuff, the smell of leather. Slick vinyl, stiff PVC. And because it is all mine the underlying scent of cinnamon. Dark, earth spice and sting and memories.
Too quickly, it always seems ... we're in the moment. And it's very good.
Sweat. Gasping breath. Whispered words in hoarse, harsh voices. ... Good ... More ... Please ... Yes, fuck .. yes ... Whimpers and moans, the perfect tone of metal on metal that goes straight to my cock. The sensuous glide of rope over skin. The snap of leather in the air or ... not. And just for him, guitar strings fresh out of the envelope.
The air is coated with sex. Not what you'd expect though. It is heady and thick, tropical and terrifying and overwhelming, this scent. A touch of copper and iron for flavor. Painpleasurepainpleasure mixing until I'm grinding my jaw to keep from gnashing my teeth to bite into it. Breathing it in and absorbing it. Dancing on the edge of a black hole in my mind, a place I'm afraid of and I crave and I can't fucking stay away from.
Stopping dead in my tracks in the middle of the moment to stare and memorize. Tilting my head just a little to see where the shadow that curves away from his shoulder and down the middle of his back ends. Admiring the cut of the skin that shivers over his abdomen. To kneel down and lick a bead of precome off the head of his cock.
My fingers follow a delicate line of sweat from his bound ankles to his knee, to his thighs to his hips. Over the smooth lines of his chest to the dip between his collarbone and I kiss there. Soft flick of my tongue, in contrast with everything that was not.
Coming down slowly. As good and as important as the beginning. And sometimes ... even though I wouldn't admit it to anyone but a very few ... sometimes this is my favorite.
Boundaries already crossed. Toys dropped and put away and left to be cleaned later, much later. Unbound limbs tangling in a desperation driven for touch, need, desire for what has already been consummated and taken and given.
Muscles sore and warm, bodies relaxed and well-used and this is the time I find out who I'm with. Not when I'm bound. Not when I'm begging. Not when he's gasping and keening and broken in my ropes and under my hands. Not when that scent is the drug that we're breathing as blood and sweat mix over bruises and welts.
But now.
After the shower, hair still dripping a little. TJ's wearing one of my silk robes since his clothes were torn and we're sitting on the couch. Thighs touching, hip to knee. The television is on, a replay of a World Cup game. Ice cold beer in bottles in our hands and I'm lighting up a joint. Passing it off to him and eyeing the trays of cold cuts and fruit and cheese ordered before and sent from the kitchen while we were bathing together.
"So, yeah. That was what I learned in college."
Gimme a sign, where do you go when you can't find the way
So we watch and we wait and we crawl and we kneel
If you know who you are then you know how to feel
In time, maybe temptation is all that you need ...
Anticipation is good. Tiny sparks at the top of my spine. Tips of my fingers numb. Skin over muscles feeling like clothing that is too tight. Every movement conscious and cautious. Never too sure if I'm asking too much, wanting too much ... never too sure where that invisible line is and constantly reminding myself to watch for it. Listen to it. Respect it.
So easy to step over.
Yes, the build-up is good.
Touching toys and tools. The metal of a cuff, the smell of leather. Slick vinyl, stiff PVC. And because it is all mine the underlying scent of cinnamon. Dark, earth spice and sting and memories.
Too quickly, it always seems ... we're in the moment. And it's very good.
Sweat. Gasping breath. Whispered words in hoarse, harsh voices. ... Good ... More ... Please ... Yes, fuck .. yes ... Whimpers and moans, the perfect tone of metal on metal that goes straight to my cock. The sensuous glide of rope over skin. The snap of leather in the air or ... not. And just for him, guitar strings fresh out of the envelope.
The air is coated with sex. Not what you'd expect though. It is heady and thick, tropical and terrifying and overwhelming, this scent. A touch of copper and iron for flavor. Painpleasurepainpleasure mixing until I'm grinding my jaw to keep from gnashing my teeth to bite into it. Breathing it in and absorbing it. Dancing on the edge of a black hole in my mind, a place I'm afraid of and I crave and I can't fucking stay away from.
Stopping dead in my tracks in the middle of the moment to stare and memorize. Tilting my head just a little to see where the shadow that curves away from his shoulder and down the middle of his back ends. Admiring the cut of the skin that shivers over his abdomen. To kneel down and lick a bead of precome off the head of his cock.
My fingers follow a delicate line of sweat from his bound ankles to his knee, to his thighs to his hips. Over the smooth lines of his chest to the dip between his collarbone and I kiss there. Soft flick of my tongue, in contrast with everything that was not.
Coming down slowly. As good and as important as the beginning. And sometimes ... even though I wouldn't admit it to anyone but a very few ... sometimes this is my favorite.
Boundaries already crossed. Toys dropped and put away and left to be cleaned later, much later. Unbound limbs tangling in a desperation driven for touch, need, desire for what has already been consummated and taken and given.
Muscles sore and warm, bodies relaxed and well-used and this is the time I find out who I'm with. Not when I'm bound. Not when I'm begging. Not when he's gasping and keening and broken in my ropes and under my hands. Not when that scent is the drug that we're breathing as blood and sweat mix over bruises and welts.
But now.
After the shower, hair still dripping a little. TJ's wearing one of my silk robes since his clothes were torn and we're sitting on the couch. Thighs touching, hip to knee. The television is on, a replay of a World Cup game. Ice cold beer in bottles in our hands and I'm lighting up a joint. Passing it off to him and eyeing the trays of cold cuts and fruit and cheese ordered before and sent from the kitchen while we were bathing together.
"So, yeah. That was what I learned in college."