The Book of Jasmine

I want to feed him with my breasts.
I want his tongue darting softly
in my mouth, in and out like the waves
upon the shore. To sit upon his engorged flesh
and love his pain away, my tongue
lapping at his tears.

I want to swallow his past, his fears
while my sex swallows his member,
up and down, side to side, in slow,
deliberate agony. His thick stalk
is slick and glistening with my need,
so deep inside me I can feel
the tight pounding of his testicles.

Sometimes, he lets me behold the wonder
of our bodies joined together, skin to skin,
pubic hair to pubic hair, holding my legs
wide as I behold the wonder of our coupling,
feeling the strain of his holding back
in his taut arms. Other times, he pushes me
onto my back, entering me with all his force,
all his haunted yearning and matching desperation.
Throwing my legs over his shoulders, he pounds
into me while I drown in the intoxicating sounds
of our love: the wet plopping, slapping-smacking,
the loud sounds of his pleasure.

I want to feel his moans inside me. To be as soft
and pliable to him as a doll as he turns me away
from him, slides my body onto his shaft.
He alternately lifts and lets me fall upon him
as he pushes high into me, his muscles corded
with sweat and tension. He is so hard and full
it almost hurts, and he watches my face crinkled
in pleasure-pain, my eyes half-lidded as if drugged.

In my dreams, his eyes are black. Piercing.

I hunger to know and taste every part of him.
For my womb, lips, throat, and flesh to be doused
in his seed. When I take him in my mouth, his
throbbing fullness, the soft sac of his testicles,
I am so hungry for him, every pore of my body
screaming so wildly for him, that I am shocked
at how deeply I take him in, how much of him
I swallow, and it is not enough. It is never enough.

I ache for his breath and words, be them harsh
and ragged, soft and gentle, to plunder my ears
as his goldenrod staff plunders the wet flower
of my core, over and over, relentlessly.

For he is never so beautiful, my fallen angel,
as when he is thrusting into me, my mouth,
between my breasts, in other forbidden places,
strong hands holding me in place, making me catch him.

I want his hands everywhere on my body, teasing,
learning, knowing. I want him to touch my most
secret place, swirling his fingers in my desire,
bringing them to my lips, making me taste myself
upon him. I want to hear him growl and shudder
as he takes me, all the while hoarsely chanting,
‘Mine. Mine. Mine.’

When I meet him, I will have rubbed orange blossoms
and vanilla onto my skin, between my legs.
There will be pinned a sole flower in my hair.

When I leave him, his scent will cling to my skin
for days. I shall sleep and eat little yet burn
forever, waiting to lie with him again. Knowing
this madness will never exhaust itself.