Lying back after peeling off her panties so that she may bring her pussy to my mouth, above me, over as the stars are above us all. Diminishing the ingrained need to make her lie back, to slide my hand between her legs and wordlessly carry on the several kisses-long trail from her mouth to the transitional skin below the belly button—Mons Pubis—which is always rough regardless of pubic preference. Giving up the command of keeping her there, below me, as I feel her tense and loosen while I work her over with my mouth, tongue, a finger or two. The taste of moistened flesh and feel of heavy breathing. Complete control of her body, for a brief and satisfying period. Master of emotion and arbiter of her flesh.
Giving all that up so that she may hold me down with her own weight, keep me contained and caged beneath her. Bring her thighs down around me like a warm waterfall. Keep her clothes on to demonstrate just what I am to do here, if not fondle her, move my hands where I please and graze her skin along the most infuriatingly subtle of trails. When she knows me, she says, “Love me.” Pinned down as prey, I can only bring my hands to her thighs, my bars, and hold them, press into them, salivate like a wild dog trapped in its cage, lift my tongue to her cunt and breathe in fire, the ocean, my God, the ever-moistening excitement, the quivering, snarling mantra above my mind, Heaven’s gate is parted and I am a slave to salvation.