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

May I?

Flip me over, force me face down on the bed. Yank my jeans down and imprison my legs.
I'm not ready for you yet, but push my panties aside and shove your fingers inside me. You'll fit tightly, driving a rush of passion through me, driving a gasp from my throat. Whisper dirty things in my ear; make me blush.
Fuck me, from behind, one hand around my throat. It will be exquisite torture to have you so close, but so inaccessible. Impale me with your fingers, press into me, fuck me until you drip sweat and gasp for breath. Leave me sore and bruised; a pleasant reminder the next day of how deliciously we came together.

Make me beg you for release. I won't come this way, so you can prolong my begging for as long as you'd like. Leave me unsatisfied and demand that I please you. Require me to ask permission for every move I make. In a soft, pleading whisper - may I run my hands through your hair? May I kiss your earlobe? May I bite a trail from your jaw to your breast? May I unbutton your pants? Spread your legs for me, may I lay between them? May I fuck you, fingers gliding inside you, mouth devouring you? May I moan my pleasure at your permission for this privilege? Know that any denied request would break my heart. Know that your taste, your noises, your movements whip me into a frenzy, and a single touch could spill me over. Come for me. May I watch you redden, writhe, tense? May I lose myself in your noises? May I?

Lessons

Sometimes I wonder if you're aware of how your words affect me, but coming from you I have no doubt your words are intentional. You stood there, holding those tweezers, and told me you like inflicting pain. I thought about the possibilities for hours.

That second picture I took and never sent was missing something. I think it would have been much improved had my hands been bound behind my back. Coarse, prickly rope is a perfect contrast to soft skin. You do remember that picture, don't you? You don't need another?

I have written too many times begging for you and imploring you to take me. Forget "let me."

Make me. Teach me those lessons I so yearn to be taught.

I know you want me on my knees. Run your hands through my hair gently before you snap my head back. I swoon at the mixture of tenderness and dominance in you. Grasp tightly and expose my throat, command me. Inflict the pain you want to inflict. Play with me. Guide my mouth where you want it. Kneeling, head back, what else can I do but submit to you? Force my mouth against you, grind against me until I am gasping for air. Be rough. I am an enthusiastic lover, you won't hurt me. Or maybe you want to hurt me, just a little. Do it.

Yes, I am going to be just a little bit rebellious. Wrap your fingers around my throat, slam me against the wall, tell me just how you're going to punish me for my disobedience. Do you want me on all fours? Kneeling? Bent and exposed? Bound and gagged? Force me to do your bidding darling. I'm new to this game, but I know you'll instruct well.

"Lessons in control, lessons in pain and pleasure."