It's always you. No other.
In this place where we are - both, but not together - I attend to mundane tasks and find sweet mindlessness in the repetition while my unanchored spirit kneels on the floor between your parted knees, looking into your beautifully contorted face and feeling the powerful flex and torsion of your thighs as you rock back in your chair and allow me the freedom to explore this gift as I please. Your copper-and-musk scent and thrust assault my senses and throat, both still somewhat barricaded inside your hateful clothing that - given our circumstance! - I cannot overcome. You hum a deep and barely discernible melody of ecstasyagonyneed and my tongue dances, entranced by the beauty of it; my hands journey enthralled by by the subtle and primal rhythm of contraction and release that sings through your thighs and abdomen. Your fingers entwine in my hair, insistent and violent, pulling my lips closer and open to your secret shuddering and sweet release.
Only you. Again and again and again.
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