Even if I’m naked against the softness of your bed I may never see the slow, sultry drip of my juices down your shaft as I describe it with ink. Yet it’s not an illusion. Perhaps your perspective caught and caged it in memory, while I studied the way the dark skin on your lips shimmers when coated in my pleasure.
Reality is crude and fast — it may ignore the sheen and glisten of your throbbing helmet. My ink slows down the passion dissecting each drop, amplifying the texture and attempting to quantify the heat of each suck, bite or kiss.
How do you measure or monitor depth when your senses are overloaded. When you are actively submitting to your deepest desires when you are fully present in a moment. When good isn’t the goal because greatness is within reach. When your body persistently, prepares and patiently awaits the details of his desires with meticulous awareness of the unspoken need in his breath.
The song of this moment was crafted in thousands of words with thousands more unwritten. The heat of the process produces each beat. In the tempo, we dance to the provocation and awe of crashing crescendo and uplifting angelic strings. Deep constant bass that pulsates and clenches at our roots, joined. Each syllable of the hook, a teasing stroke — to our pulse repeating again and again. A mantra for desire.