Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Think Of Him


When I think of him, I first see his eyes, big and brown, soft and caring. They hide his true nature, the man I experience when we're alone, the lights dim, my breath rushed. When those eyes are locked on me, there is no one else, nothing else in my world. Just me, him, and those eyes.

Then I think of his arms, strong, muscular, powerful. Those arms holding me, encircling me, feeling as if they will never let me go.

I think of his hands. His fists, punching me. The smack of his palm against my cheek. His fingers entwined in my hair, softly massaging my head as we kiss, or pulling furiously, like a dog on a leash, guiding me to wherever he so chooses.

I think of his chest. Broad, neither hard nor soft, my head resting at just the right spot to hear his heart beating. My lips kissing his nipples, tickling him when I know I shouldn't, when I know what he'll do to me because of my affection.

I think of his legs, thick thighs, defined calves. The swing of his hips as he runs. The tightening and releasing of his muscles when he lifts me up, carrying me in his arms, then unceremoniously dropping me onto our bed.

Oh, his ass. The quick glances I sneak when he comes out of the shower.  My lightly caressing strokes as I enjoy his glorious cock.

Fuck, his cock. My lips, my mouth long to have his cock filling me, fucking me, forcing me to gag. His cock inside me, pounding, driving me to the edge and blasting me still further. Gripping his cheeks tight, trying to take all of him in, pulling him in, just that much more. The explosion of when I do cum, and yet he still forces more, an almost never ending violent abuse of my pussy that I constantly thank him for as he does it.

God, that is what I remember most, the sweet dull ache of him in me, the sway of our bodies, the sometimes thrashing, the memory of his cock always inside me.

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