It was an evening like any other. We were heading out to grab a bite to eat, dressed in our – what might just be an Aussie term – ‘around the house’ clothes.
And as she’s pulling the door shut and locking it behind me, I sneakily lean into her neck and kiss her softly, sweetly, teasingly. The kind that makes her flustered.
Only. Something was happening to me.
As I leaned in for the kiss, before I could even process the thought, I thought about biting her. No, not even that. I thought about sinking my teeth into her.
She was the unsuspecting victim and I was the vampire lurking for her in the dark, right? Maybe we knew each other a few lives ago. I wouldn’t put it past me to be a brooding in-love-with-love centuries vampire.
But what I mean is that when I was leaning in, a flood of thoughts all hit me at once. The bite on her pale neck, ripe blood running fresh, the sensuality of that darkness, that viciousness, the primal aspect in me almost demonic, telling me to bite, to drink, to take her there and then.
Were I not an expert in suppressing my primal self, something I unfortunately learnt to do second nature during my teens and early twenties, I would’ve dragged her to the side of the porch, up against the rough wall.
I would’ve wondered what that concrete on her back would feel like as it clawed at her flesh as I yanked her by the hair, turned her around so her sweet ass faced me and pulled her sheer tight leggings down.
And here’s another thing, I love to glide my hand along a woman’s slit, you know? Not only is it so powerful in so many different ways – a conduit of connectedness, a delightful playground to experiment with sensitivity, a sacred place for which I am ever blessed to behold in a spiritual way – but I love the feeling of running my fingers along every inch. The feel of her being trimmed, shaven, whatever the case, as she grows wet. And out of control.
So with her neck bleeding, her senses out of control, her body now linked with mine by way of my saliva in her blood stream, I would effectively own her in a very primordial way, unlike anything we established by way of words or contract.
Oh I would bite her lips, peeking through her thigh at me, I would nibble gently, a feast for my senses. Tomorrow I can wonder about the outcome but tonight I would dine. Tonight I would gorge myself on her flesh.
I could see myself feverishly rubbing her slit with my hands, finding her clit, applying the pressure I know how. I would bark at her to moan so they heard, so they all heard, yes. But more so because deep within her lies a dormant animal. It’s deep within us all and needs to come out. We need to be in constant communion. So I would work her to madness, as she presses harder against the walls, grunting, crying, screaming until she came.
Then I would use my mouth to savour the drops of her sanity coming out of her lips. I would leave no inch untouched, to make her feel sacred, worshipped. Yes I worship at her idol, on my knees, eager for every gasp and grunt and wheeze. My animal queen.
And when she would come, the distinct taste of her juices spraying across my tongue, enlightening my senses, I would grab hold of her by either side of her legs and enter her.
And I can feel it now, do you understand that insanity?! How slickly I would fill her, coating myself in her essence, feeling myself within her. I would take her sweetly from behind, hoping, wondering, if I drove her face to scratch against the concrete wall, marking her.
And where would I come?
I didn’t get that far. Life and love beckons me back to reality. We’re hopping in the car. It’s a quick series of movements that one – it’s a chilly winter evening.
As we pull out of the driveway, I look at that same wall on the porch, the one I bent her against, and smile.
Holy fuck, have you ever had a moment to yourself like this, dear readers?