Baying at the moon

I dreamt about Yvonne the other night.

I have not seen her in years, but I dream of her sometimes. I never dream of her sexually, but once I’m awake, I think of her flesh.

I was loud when I fucked her — the guttural sounds of an animal in heat; I was a wolf baying at the moon wanting to cum forever. She would squirt on me as if marking her territory, and I would always come back for more.

She would tie me to the bed telling me not to cum, and as she sipped on a glass of wine, she milked me and pulled my balls down. She would laugh when she succumbed to my begging and marvelled at how much I would cum for her. I wanted to fuck her, but she just wanted to watch me cum and liked to remind me this is what happens when I was bad.

When she wanted to be bad, she would dress in leather, and heels; I would put on my collar and to the glow of candlelight, I would let her take me. When she was finished, I would kiss her and hold her tight. In the morning, she would bite my nipple hard, and she would tell me it was so I would remember her throughout the day.

I worshiped her pussy and would ask to shave it clean. On those occasions, I would take her to bed and caress her folds and circle her clit until she opened like a flower; her juices would cling to her lips like dew. Ever so quietly I would ask if I could enter her and she would nod softly. I would insert a finger slowly — then a second, and then my thumb. I would gently rotate my thumb over the two fingers and caress her inner wall and then kiss and play with her clit with my tongue. I would drink her juices as she came and revelled when she grabbed my hair to pull me hard into her. Her sounds filled the room. I can hear her still.

We were building something, but like with many things, she slipped away on the frictionless surface of misunderstanding. She was everything to me and then she simply was gone. Never to be seen again.

For a long time, I bayed at the moon.

Jerking off for you

Our long hug goodbye at the airport would fuel us until we saw each other again — it was always the way with the embers of desire; inevitably they would grow out of control and one of us would make a desperate call with a grand plan to find our way back to each other.

The house was empty, but the memories of the weekend were fresh, and I busied myself tidying up and getting ready for the week ahead. I even made it out for an evening run after receiving a text saying you’d landed and how you missed me already — embers smouldered.

As I got ready for bed, I went for a quick shower, turned on the light and saw your message handwritten on the mirror in pale pink lipstick.

Thank you for a wonderful weekend. I already miss your touch (among other things). See you soon and think of me!

 S 

The message was accented with the soft imprint of a kiss.

As I read the message again and focused on the kiss, I could taste you; feel your breasts pressed into me as we kissed; hear your soft groans as I played with your lips and slid a finger inside a hungry pussy. I relived how we found ourselves fucking on the kitchen table and let myself get lost in memories.

My hand went to my cock and imagined your hand moving along the shaft as your tongue circling the head. I was hard now and as I pushed my shorts down I could see the reflection of my hard cock through the letters; as I I thought of you riding me, there was a frenetic energy as I stroked with a desire to cum for you — cum in you. I watched the intensity of my orgasm and leaned into the sink for balance; globs of my cum now decorating the sink and I shivered from the sensitivity of my cock as I moved to clean myself up.

When I finally got into bed, I texted to thank you for the wonderful message and tell you I had jerked off, and wasn’t going to clean the mirror for the while. I was surprised when you replied because I assumed you would be asleep.

We shared our desires into the night, and in the dark, the embers glowed.

W