White Tower
We are clean, at last, but he still tastes of skin and earth and
blood and sweat, of me, of us, of the soft white sheet that is
partly wrapped around him, warmed by our body heat. It is smooth and
slick beneath my arms as I put my arms around him and pull him
against me.
Mine forever, mine and mine alone. No more hardships for us to
endure.
We are caught in the bed-sheets as they tangle around our legs, as
the fabric strains against my erection and I feel his warm body
through it, pressing against me, trying to reach me, to touch me
where he wants to touch me, where I want to be touched the most. It
hinders us but I don't really mind, we will get there eventually.
My eyes are closed because I just want to feel him, to know for real
what he feels like: I've watched him for so long.
I try to take it slow but he is impatient and greedy and so am I. He
topples me, pulls the bed-sheet from between us and with the last
thread of my conscious mind I realize we have all the time in the
world.
by Sasjah Miller
mell and taste become one as his stubble scratches feverishly
against my collar bone, and my sighs tenfold echo his moaning
against the hollow of my throat. He kisses me, bites me, tastes me
and then kindly lets me return the pleasure. Hurry, he's in such
a hurry to get to me, I'm in such a hurry to get to him.
