On kissing you

It is gentle, this image I have of kissing you, soft and exploratory.

Maybe because you are so naively greedy, offering yourself with no real clue what you are putting on the table. You think you can give it because you don’t know any better.

It would be tender… a slow approach, watching your reaction, seeing the longing, the yearning, the guileless reaching. It is heartbreaking, really, the innocence of it, the trust. And oh my god, the shy hesitance, accentuated by the bottomless eagerness, the wide-eyed artless desire.

I know you would sink quickly under the onslaught I ache to enact on you, but that’s not what I want.

I want you to come to me.

I want to wait within an inch of your reach, my eyes on your face, my tongue slipping out to touch my top lip, your gaze fixated on that small flickering movement, waiting for my mouth. I will linger there for as long as it takes for you to give in and come to me.

Come to me, baby… yes, just like that.

You reach for me, closing the gap between us, your mouth soft, lips parted, your eyes closing in anticipation.

You don’t get to kiss me though… no no… too easy.

I pull back from you and watch your face, your eyes flicker open at being denied, confusion, hurt… I see you wonder silently, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Oh yes, baby, yes it’s what I wanted, exactly what I wanted… but it’s not enough, I want more. That’s too easy, and I always want more.

I adore your bewilderment, that puzzled look on your face, that slight fear that you have done something wrong, it breaks my heart even as it makes me wet.

You are waiting now. Anxious that you have done the wrong thing, you are made hesitant.

And now I get to touch your lips with mine, to stroke against you, and I know you will pause there, your breath quickening, you will melt into my touch, and wait, giving me free reign. My tongue slipping between your lips, pulling your full, pillowy-soft bottom lip towards me, that warm wet slickness making me want to grab you by the hair and smash into you, but I don’t.

I am so fucking gentle with you that it makes my insides clench with the impossible restraint of it, a groan of frustration escapes me, I am fighting the urge to crash hard into you, to shove you to the ground, to bite your mouth and slap your face, to see your stunned shock in it, to see you reach desperately for the violence of my kiss. I want it so badly, your surrender under this assault, but I hold it all back, muscles trembling with the suppressed desire.

Instead, I part your lips so gently with mine that it barely feels like we are touching, and I feel you give under it, sensitive to every slight movement. You open your mouth to me and invite me in, my tongue reaching for yours, tentative, exploratory. I feel your greed for more, you are holding back also, pretending to be a passive recipient, but I can taste this pent up energy coiled in waiting, flavours of blood and iron. I feel it in your desperate breaths, in your tight muscles, clenched fists, that strangled sound in the back of your throat.

I curb every aggressive instinct in me and instead tease out the leisurely moments with you like this, shuddering breaths shared between us revealing the strain of holding back. The excruciating pleasure of these slow moments of connection stretch out forever, and longer, until there is nothing except this second of intense intimacy, and then the next.