Where it becomes difficult to color between the lines. Where you’re left wondering why you were wondering in the first place. Where you tell yourself that you will take just one small bite but find yourself reaching for more.
What do I think about when I fall asleep at night?
I dream about…
…her…nameless…faceless…perfect in her imperfections…her…the girl I passed in the walkway at work…her…the woman I smiled at while ordering strawberries at the diner…her…the submissive upon whose throat my hands feels entirely too comfortable…her…embodied in the words of a stranger describing how it feels to drag her fingers across her clit at my demanding insistence….her…
…and I am…
…wanting the first touch, the first time a hand finds her bare thigh, bare everything, fingers arching to slide against her. This could be anywhere. It could be at my door. It could be in the backseat of my car. It could be on my couch, or my bed. Or floor. The first kiss might be on the small of her back, or the curve of her neck. It’s that first taste of her skin, the first moment I realize my hands have found the warmth of something deliciously dangerous. A hint of something. A promise, a threat of more. A first touch that is both hesitant and sure, finding her wet already….
…and I am pressing her back against a wall, holding her wrists behind her back, and kissing her, knowing she can’t stop me, that she just have to give in entirely to the kiss…
…and I am tracing promises into her skin with my fingertips and tasting her answers on her lips. Wrapping her so tight that a whisper can push her over…
…and I am enjoying the danger in living out a fantasy; the harder the step, the more lines that are crossed, the harder it hits, the stronger the desire. Sometimes it is the step itself that burns. How many lines does can one dream cross…
…and I am hearing the catch in her breathing when lips move along the back of her neck, drawing her head to the side to nuzzle and hold her still while small burning kisses are left against her skin…
…and I am traveling those dark woods and freeing the wolves that haunt them; beasts that feast on the things you keep tamed through friendship, through routine, through art…
…and I am spiraling along the edge, tasting life and breathing it in like the cool crisp air after rain. Left sensitive and shivering. Hungry and happy…
…and I am practicing evil subtle enough that the soul is a gift already given…
…and I awake to the taste of lingering dreams like absinthe on my lips and the fevered echoes of desire that tickle the back of my mind until I slide under again, this time into a slumber filled not with dreams, but of…
Oh. my. yes.
“…and I am tracing promises into her skin with my fingertips and tasting her answers on her lips. Wrapping her so tight that a whisper can push her over…”
Oh. Fuck. (kneels)