Re: My Last Post. What Some "lovers" Have Said To Me.

Re: my last post. What some "lovers" have said to me.

calling my lover "mine" but not in the way that my toothbrush or notebook are mine, mine in the way my neighborhood is mine, and also everybody else's, "mine" like mine to tend to, mine to care for, mine to love. "mine" not like possession but devotion.

Mine

You sleep, peacefully, unaware that I'm curling up behind you. I pull you against me, burying my face into the middle of your back, breathing you in. You smell so good

I run my hands over your skin, listening for how your breathing changes depending on where and how I touch you. Those soft sleepy moans you make are divine; I feel so powerful. I can make you so needy in your sleep

Finally my questing hands reach for my prize: your stiffening cock. I love that you're ready for me, and kiss your back softly. A few obscene sounds from the bottle of lube I have on hand, and I start to run a slick finger around your asshole.

Those shuddery breaths you make are heavenly, and I work my finger into you, loosening you. Fuck, it's so slutty, you working back against me in your sleep. Needing this. Wanting this.

Sensing you're ready, I line the strap up against you, before slowly working myself into you. Your soft whimpers are delicious, and I reach for your cock to stroke you while I fuck you.

i like how sleeping people have no filters. You don't even realize you're riding me as I fuck and stroke you. The most vulnerable version of you is such a whore for me.

I could go on like this forever, thrusting into you, my fingers dancing over your shaft, listening to the moans you can't hide from. But your climax is building. I can tell from how much harder your working against me, how your turgid length throbs in my hand. I won't prolong this delicious sleepy torture. You need release and I want to give it to you.

A combination of things tilts you into bliss as you cum; I can't pinpoint any one event as the culprit for your climax. Maybe it's the strap in your ass or my hand on your cock, or, hell, the soft, encouraging kisses I pepper over your back as I work. It doesn't matter. Your whimpers are such a delight as you spill your need over my knuckles.

After a moment, all is quiet. I survey the damage: open, lubed hole, messy stomach, cock, sheets. I slide off my harness and set it aside, debating whether to clean you up, but opt instead for you to wake to evidence of your use. One final touch, though. Using your cum, I fingerpaint one word over your pubic bone: Mine.

Bussed

Do you remember the first time you kissed me? Not that nervous, eager, needy mashing of two mouths together, or that filler while we tore at one another’s clothes. No. The first time you actually met my lips with yours for no other reason than the need to taste my mouth with yours. To feel the heat of my breath meeting yours, the slow co-mingling of inhale and exhale intertwining. Do you remember each aching hesitation, the gentle caress of my tongue sliding against yours, insistent and yet yielding? How I started off tasting like myself but together we created a flavour that was sweet and spicy and utterly addictive? I know I smiled into the gentle tugging at my lips with yours, and you smiled back, so joyful. Those long lost moments made me lightheaded, longing for you, for us, joined.

You don’t remember? You’ve never kissed me like that?

Now is a perfect time to start. I’m waiting.

I loved her in the way that only comes with youth: irresponsibly, naïvely, selfishly, wholly and joyously, and I didn't even realise it was love.

I called her my friend, my very best friend. I told her if I were a man I'd take her away from everything that troubled her. I wanted to protect her and keep her safe.

In my ignorance, I hurt her, drove her away, because she already had the language to know how she felt, but surely if I were queer, someone would have told me.

It was the loneliest closet, for I didn't know I was in it, alone.

He guided her back to the vanity and took a tissue to her mussed face, his movements deliberate and gentle. She wasn't surprised; some part of her expected it, knew from how he spun her out and drew her back on the dance floor that there could be an undercurrent of tenderness. She took his hand in hers, turning the palm up, and placed it to her lips, kissing his skin.

He smiled faintly, tossing the tissue away, stroking her hair with his free hand. "An apology? Unusual. I accept."

"It wasn't..." she started to protest, before casting her eyes upwards, glancing into his. She was thunderstruck.

"You're a demon." She whispered.

"Nothing so common." He scoffed, waving a hand, before taking her elbow. "Come, my brat."

"Yes." She said, mouth dry. He’d never used a single power on her.

He led her through the kitchens. She was rich; she exited this way constantly. Her limo was parked out back, anyhow.

The driver raised a single brow, which lowered under His gaze. She just shrugged. "Take us home." The driver seemed about to argue, when she gave him a look, "Home, Rhys. It's not a debate." He stiffened and opened the door for the couple, shutting it politely once they were within, and pulling away from the curb moments later.

In the back, he pulled her to his side. She resisted for a fraction of a second and he shot her a warning look. Interpreting it immediately, she nestled against him, shivering. He could sense her blood pounding through her veins, roaring in her ears.

"Are you frightened, brat?" He leaned down and breathed against her ear, before allowing his tongue to trace the outline.

She whimpered softly, hands clasping the hand of the arm he had around her shoulders, before she found her rebellion, and whispered, "I have a name."

"Eulalia Chara Kazantzakis. Yes. Heir to the fortune. The only remaining heir. Your brother lost his life in a duel, your parents in a car crash. You're alone in the world. You go by Lollie. I'm going to call you Brat...in private. But among others, Eulalia. Your name is beautiful."

Her eyes fluttered closed. "Yes."

He nuzzled against her hair, lips pressed to her ear, murmuring, "Or shall I call you Eulalia in private, when you've behaved?"

Gooseflesh erupted over her skin, and she nodded, trembling.

"Yes." He breathed. "You'd like me to acknowledge you more as just my brat. More than just..." He paused, and smiled, growling the word, "Mine."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, pressing her knees together. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Her fingernails bit into his flesh, she was holding his hand so tightly.

"When was the last time you ever felt this exhilarated, Eulalia?" He asked softly, shaking her hands from his, then drawing his hand in, to her throat, stroking the flesh there. Her hands descended to her knees, clenched into fists.

"Well?" He queried. Her response was a full body shudder, and he deliberately, slowly, grasped her windpipe. "That's not an answer, brat." He drew her chin back, tipping her head so he could look down into her eyes.

"When?"

She shook her head, eyes opening, clear, feckless. "Never."