Ian 30

Ian,

Our bodies, yes. Our mouths, certainly. But when I consider how we touched first, what I know is that I moved impatient and desperate to open myself beneath you, and your cock slid inside me quickly, warm as the hidden skin of a shy animal in late sunlight, touching me in a place where I feel...

Something like a joyful panic. A helpless acceptance of a moment our names become the same. A choked and sequined emotion constructed of unshed tears and looks averted. Maybe that's all anticipation ever was; some child's devotion I never had a name for, as a girl designed to so carefully feel nothing. 

I first touched your cock with the edges of a hollow space inside me, the sight of it unknown, and let it draw from me what I'd held so deep within, that only Bonnie knew; that I'm in love with you. It's my favorite way to touch a cock the first time. In such a way, to be blind to it, and feeling the places in my pussy it stretches tight around, closes to, opens just wide enough for, and hold back tears for the pain of. 

What I knew first about how we touch one another, is this is how we do. Without an artifice designed to exalt a drawn out waiting, and with the immediacy of hard want, wet need, innocent trust. I trusted you. I will always trust you. 

I closed my eyes while you fucked me, to imagine what it might look like to see what my body could feel of you. I wonder sometimes if I could tell, if a whore could tell, her eyes narrowing in recognition. I forget a lot of faces honey, but never a repeat customer. Is my body such a scholar of a wound? Would it remember always the pain you fucked into me, the slow and fearful way I came, the pressure which assured me it was wider than I'd expected?  

I never found out, because night raced me back to you, where you fed it to me in long strokes of your hips, and of time, until I knew it by sight and touch, and could later describe its shape and color to my twin brother. 

"Don't you remember?" 

His eyes flickered low, maybe embarrassed, or resentful. 

"Knock it off, Evie," he pouted, mistaking me for teasing. 

The eventual shape and destitute longing of the ever-proper Oxford comma, which grants the wish of the end of many similar things. 

The color of Nick's lips on a warm day, his scarred knees on a cold one. 

He licked his mouth, and told me, "That's disgusting."

The looks I receive more than any other, anymore, I would describe as wolven. The taste of your cum is an acidic fear edged with a sweet and human flavor like the inside of a mouth thick and warm, pressed behind the clean pads of the paws of a fox that knows the speed of that which is behind him. You taste hunted. You taste cloyingly hopeful. When you cum into my mouth, you wrap your hand around your cock and rest the head against my tongue, where you pet my hair and I kiss the cum from you. 

You're a virgin, and I look for what of your body might match that state of being well enough to be noticeable. Could I see you were a virgin by the way your cock looks? Are you some original Lolita, always and forever new and young-looking below the waist, so unspoiled? 

I see no difference but in your irascibility. You get hard for me over these rocks, this book of matches, this tear in my nylons, this assurance we were always meant to be. 

You've made yourself cum for me four times now, in the morning before we left the nest of our bed. You roll into me, you hand pressing your cock into the resistance of my body, and my hand snakes fast to find the nape of you. I rest there, while you breathe hot and fast into the corners of me, and press your cock against my sleeping skin to dowse it with another way you taste or feel. 

Close to you in the bed I know we'll come back to, lacking the right amount of space for us, I know I'll find it quickly then, in the dark places we'll inhabit. 

Love,

Annik