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.