Tipsy

After two glasses of wine, I'm happy - not at all drunk, just warmed up and pleasant. When I get home and drink two more (three more? four?) glasses of wine, and can't stop dancing...that's when I'm trouble. God, I am in a mood tonight.

You've never seen me truly dance...I'm not saying I'm amazing, but I definitely want to be grinding against you right now. All I need is a beat and your warm body to move against, hips grinding, undulating, body moved like a marionette to the music. I think you'd be pleased. For some reason, you like my body. You'd like it exponentially more feeling the music as deeply as I do right now, skin electric, all inhibitions lowered, moving like stopping would kill me...

In my slightly inebriated state, it is so very difficult to restrain myself. My need for you is threefold increased. I feel so flirty right now, so incredibly wanton. It's nice to feel so sexual, but it is terrible to be so sexual and yet so untouched. Maybe it's best to remember lust is just the firing of certain synapses in our brains, and should be ignored and retrained like so many other emotions.

Sometimes

I get to share so little of myself with you. I get so little of you in return, but not for a lack of trying.

Time is everything for us. I want to show you the side of me you've yet to experience.
My first priority for every little moment we steal away is to be in your arms. I crave those arms around me and infinitely enjoy the warmth of you so close to me. I want those sweet gentle kisses, and I want your tenderness.

The heat returns once my need for the pure sweetness of your touch has been placated. The feel of your hands on my body is so distracting that I think the only way to get to you is to take charge first. I want you to know me unequivocally. I want you to know my nature. Yes, sweet, genuine, nice but also confident, playful, dominant. Also resilient, fierce, and occasionally predatory. Yes, predatory.

Seeing you only where we do frustrates me. See you there and only there forces me to continuously play to your rules. You are in charge. You are better at hiding, better at watching out, so you retain control. My urges to be in control remain stifled.

Sometimes I want to shove you hard against the wall, smother any protests you might have with my lips, and take the liberties I want to take. It should be my hand to your throat, holding you still; my hand over that gorgeous mouth of yours, muffling your noises. It should be your hands pinned down - don't think for a second that I couldn't do it. It should be my teeth biting an imprint in your lip that swells and reminds you of my kisses for days. It should be your warm, warm body that feels the cool trails my eternally cold fingers leave behind. It should be my fingers delving deep to force out the moans I so need to hear. I can see your face flushed from holding back those noises, your body unsteady and tensing. It should be you left shaky with the adrenaline of almost teetering over into orgasm, but almost getting caught. It should be me devouring you, feeding my hunger.

Sometimes.

Need

You chose your words so carefully, just to tell me that I make you wet. How sweet of you to protect my delicate sensibilities. You are so charming.
You make me wet too, gorgeous. After one of your little visits I am always pleased to be wearing dark pants. You leave me soaked and wanting you.

I am wet now just thinking about my hair balled in your fist. I love your pure enjoyment of that moment, how easily you control my movements, how you seem to relish guiding my head where you want it. In that moment more than any other it was so difficult not to unfasten your belt, pull your pants down and let my tongue explore you. When we are finally able, I want you just that way, you pulling my hair so hard it hurts, you forcing my mouth against you, you letting out that little noise you do when something pleases you.

I withhold so much. We've talked about "switching roles." You don't know of what I am capable, and I cannot show you with our current restrictions. You must take charge right now, because I trust you not to get us caught. Aren't you curious, gorgeous?

Yes, fuck me on that desk. It is still so risky, with that window, but that adds something doesn't it? Take off my pants and bend me over the desktop. Grasp one of my hips to steady me while you fuck me, because I know you won't be gentle. I want it to hurt. Shove your fingers into me, I'll be so swollen and wet for wanting you. Make me cry out, make me beg. Make it too much, and don't stop when I ask. When you tire, sit me on the desk and kiss away my soreness. Bite your way down my body, leave an imprint of your teeth at the juncture of my hip you love so much. That chair is the perfect height for my knees over your shoulders. Trail kisses up my thighs. Be gentle with your tongue, barely brush it against me. Make me squirm and try to force you closer. Tease me, pull away when I am getting close. Make me use my legs to hold your mouth against me. When I can't hold back anymore, when I shake and cry out and writhe, kiss me with those gorgeous soft lips of yours. I want to taste myself on your lips.

Endless

My desire to write is very like lust. It wakes me from my sleep and demands my attention. When I am unable to placate the urge, it remains an itching in my brain, a deep primal compulsion. My mind rarely strays from the insistent burn when the desire goes unsatisfied. Even when my thoughts must move to daily tasks, there is a place in my brain that cannot forget what must be consummated before I can rest.

You are the reason for my restlessness. You inspire me to write and you arouse my lust. Between the two, my mind is constantly pressed with urge, desire, need. This is not a complaint. You feed that live wire electricity beneath my skin. Without it I would be hollow. This is what it feels like to live.

My desire to write can be satisfied, at least temporarily; my need for you seems endless. Again, it's too much to tell you how often my thoughts stray to you.

When I write, when I embody the perfect mind state to craft my words the way I want them to fall on the page, I am all sensation. I am the words on the page, they are an intrinsic part of me. I am the restlessness, the urges, the compulsion, the pressing fuck me now need. Do musicians meld with their instruments the way I live my words? Every chord flowing from my speakers the musicians plucked on my guitar string rib cage. There is sheer artistry in pulling emotion from your audience the way these players do.

You asked me why I had such a good morning. Silly question. I had an extraordinary morning because the object of my desire was moved by my writing, by my pictures. I relish that response, "Jesus." I had an extraordinary morning because the glowing need controlling my body was answered by the same need guiding yours.

I crave your touch. I have an insatiable need for you, for what your touch does to me. Every blog I write is a call to action. Every blog I write is a plea.

Reckless

You said, "You should drink a few more glasses and come see me." It was a flippant remark, and funny, but darling, I have no need of wine to come see you. All I need is a serious request (order?) from you. True, my inhibitions would be completely lowered, but I have so few inhibitions where you are involved. You don't want me reckless in your presence. It is already so hard to hold back.

I love the sense of urgency when we're together. I thrive in it, that's why I smiled. My wrists hit the wall, the slam reverberating through my body. Yes.
I had to test you just a little; it's so pleasing to me that you held your ground and pushed harder against me, anchoring me to the wall.  How tantalizing, your kisses almost out of reach. I became nothing beyond the need you continuously stir in me. 

How easily I see what could have happened. How quickly my mind strays to you swiftly unbuttoning my pants, yanking them down, my wrists still imprisoned by your grasp. How readily I'd take anything you have to offer. Drive me against that wall, your fingers buried deep. Make it impossible for me to keep quiet. See my abandon, my recklessness, the absolute pleasure of having you inside of me written all over my face. Take me.

Kneel before me, knowing that even in that position of submission you hold the power. Affix my hips to that wall with your mouth, my leg wrapped tightly around your head, your body and mine both rocking with the writhing I cannot control. When I can't stand anymore, pull me to the floor, carry me to the table, whatever you please, just please don't stop.

I can't stand all the clothing. I need your skin. Let me feel how much it turns you on to touch me. I want you wet; I'd kill for the taste of you on my lips. If you won't let me touch you, let me see you touch the places I long to caress. Trace my lips with fingers damp with your own desire. You drive me wild. It would be such a privilege to please you.

Meet me after work, any place is fine. The dark is a great equalizer. Don't leave me wanting, please. I need your touch.

Reminiscence

Over the last few days I have been unable to resist sliding my hands over the paths your hands so recently traced. Those wonderful hands of yours left echoes of warmth in my skin that I can't help reviving. My hands are a poor imitation, but I still feel the tingle, the gentle reminder that you've touched me. If I close my eyes and slowly move my hands the way you moved yours, I see you in that moment. I see the lustrous blue of your eyes, I see your tenderness, I see your desire.

A million times a day I run my hand through the hair that is constantly in my face and push it aside. You made that same gesture, twice running your fingers so gently through my hair. Maybe it is too much to tell you I take pleasure in that simple moment, that the million times I brush my hair aside bring a million images of you to my mind.

Do you know how hard it was to tell you my little story while you teased me from your chair? What little fantasies did you have playing in your mind while I was seated before you? Every word I was trying to say caught in my throat, held in by the images I had of you in various states of undress.

I want my hands buried in your hair beautiful, my lips pressed to your throat. I want to trail my fingers along the gentle dip of your spine, I want to follow the paths I traced with my lips. I want your skin to my skin. I ache for you.

Weak

You make my knees weak. I'm sure you could tell. I am not shy about voicing my pleasure, so I hope you appreciate how absolutely difficult it was to remain silent. I had to hold even my breath in, because those moans I contained would have spilled out with my breath, had I allowed myself to breathe.

You are this amazing woman, beautiful, strong, tender. You're irresistible to me. I'd do anything to bring a smile to your face. Say the word beautiful, and what you want you get.

I want more. You said those same words the first time we kissed. They are still true for me now. I want more of you. I want you to finish what you started. I want to make you feel what I felt.

Hold, please.

One of the pure pleasures of a chilly house is the utter deliciousness of wrapping yourself in warm blankets to ward off the chill. That pleasure is, of course, magnified when you're able to add the touch of one person who frequently fills your thoughts. Wish wish wish...

Some days call for evocative fantasy, and some require a substantially more tame reality. This is a reality kind of morning, replete with longing, chill, and that ever present hunger. The chill is probably fever.

Expect more from me Thursday. I hope to feel thoroughly better again by then, and expect to do some writing then. I'm thinking of a few new recipes you might like too.

Indulgence

Perhaps it seems odd to write about food on a blog so devoted to sensuality. Sensuality need not be so narrow. I'm loving the definition of sensuality as "unrestrained indulgence in sensual pleasures," with sensual defined as "arousing or excited the senses or appetites." Just the words in those definitions are tantalizing. I find it infinitely possible to explore life sensually. I feel too much.

A brief browse of the library shelves yields slow cooker recipes, recipes for health, recipes for people who dislike cooking. I cannot stand cooking for necessity. Seldom found are the books created by and for people carrying on a love affair with food. Seldom found are the people whose senses are aroused by the fine texture of good flour, the rich hunks of butter in a pie crust, the incomparable aroma of that buttery crust browning. I bake for the sheer love of the thing. Boxed cake mixes and bread machines are blasphemy. Wooden spoons, hand kneaded dough, and quality ingredients are the essence of baking. Remove the essence and the whole experience whithers.

The recipe titles leave all but the most experienced food connoisseur wanting. Poached winter fruits with crème anglaise does not sound appetizing or overly special, but oh what the picture of that miraculous dessert will evoke. When poached in wine and amazingly aromatic spices, plums and apples become complex and otherworldly. Words on a page mean nothing. Texture, taste, piquant scents, mouthfeel are all essential. Food creates memories, desserts all the more so. Beyond the pure sensuality of a properly prepared dessert, there is a gratification in sharing that beauty with others.

“If you are careful,' Garp wrote, 'if you use good ingredients, and you don't take any shortcuts, then you can usually cook something very good. Sometimes it is the only worthwhile product you can salvage from a day; what you make to eat. With writing, I find, you can have all the right ingredients, give plenty of time and care, and still get nothing. Also true of love. Cooking, therefore, can keep a person who tries hard sane.”
― John Irving, The World According to Garp