The First Taste

The first taste is always the most primal.
I hold her chin in my hand.
Her eyes are shut tight.
There is a strain, a tension in her neck.
I can see it.
I watch her swallow, through narrowed eyes.
Her eyes are still shut tight, in anticipation.
My fingers cling tightly to her skin.
I turn her head to the side a little, slowly, so I can look at her.
Admire her, evaluate her.  Own her.
The other hand, caressing her neck,
holds her firmly in place even though she has no desire to move.
And, I can feel every time she swallows.
And yes, to her, I am so very romantic.
Because she can feel my strength,
flowing from my fingers, from my kisses,
flowing into her body, making her stronger.
Her neck and shoulders crave my attention.
She wants to feel my gentle bites to her tender flesh,
so I can feel her arch her back,
and feel the struggle as she twists beneath me.
Helpless.  Enduring.
Sometimes, she wants me to go straight for what I am craving.
Her mouth.
She wants her mouth to be controlled by me.
And I want her to thrive on that thought.
Am I leading or did I follow?  I can’t tell. 
All I know is that I don’t want to stop. 
The thought of the taste of your sweet saltiness,
the smell of you on my cheeks,
the rhythm of your hips
meeting my thrusts keeps me frenzied,
and makes me want you more and more…

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