Marks
I want to see it on my skin, I want to feel it, I want to consume it, absorb it. I want to feel it again and deeper. I want to be able to remember absolutely every parts of my body touched by you, licked by you, connected to you.
Bite me, please. Bite me again.
Again and again.
Stronger and heavier.
I want to view again those round marks of your teeth on my skin.
Oh babe, can you hear me moaning by the pressure of your teeth? By the contact of your lips, of you tong. Babe, can you feel my body contracting by the smooth heat of your breathe, deeply hoping that will never end.
Again, more, everywhere, bite every free spaces on my shapes. Every unpunished curves on my frame.
I want to revoke the excitation from your nails on my back. Touching me, desiring me, excited be me, flaming, shaking and dying to be able to do stubbornly nothing. I want to revoke the satisfaction of understanding that you are failing and, after all, caved.
I want to be excited by the simple memory of your mouth every time I feel the pain. The memory of the surprise to be turned on from pain. This kind of pain precisely. In fact, excited by the simple vision of your spit on my oily pure skin. In fact, excited because I enjoy it so much more than you, inexplicably.
Good boy, it was exactly what I was expected from you. Also, babe, you still have so much to lick anyway.
I want to remind with each pressure when my arms brush me and the idea that it could dawn again. The obsession to want it again constantly on my brain.
More bites. More marks. More fixed. More durable. More tenacious.
Wasn’t as long, intense, inventive and unexpected as the night before with the suitable blond curvy one. But still, fuck, I want to have those marks again all over.