continuation:

The reverence in your attitude as you knelt between my thighs thickened my throat, and I had to swallow hard to get past it. With thumbs and nose and tongue, you set to work at unravelling my tightly-knit composure. With teeth and two days' growth of beard, you teased the unknit strands into frayed, mostly-incoherant fluff.

While I still had use of my hands, I gently gathered your hair away from your face, focused on not pulling it out by the roots, and watched.

Watched your smooth brow, serene closed eyes. Watched the light on your shoulders. Watched the perfect focus you gave to the task at hand.

"You look like you're praying," I thought, and didn't realise I'd spoken until you answered.
"I am."

Art, I have been:
Sensory sculpture, a painting in flesh, matted and displayed for the artist's own pride.
Nourishment, I have been:
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the connoisseur, his napkin left folded neatly on his plate when he was done.

I have been refuge and conquest.

I have been mother and whore, albeit *very* poorly compensated.
But never before had I been anything like sacrement.

...

Under my breath, I'm saying all manner of thing to myself. Sweet encouragement, rough taunts, things that would be fighting words if any lips but yours or mine shaped them. Hands and breath and words and images, all of them twisting together to try and coax the climax out from its hiding place and into the moonlight.

Nature takes the pace over from intent. What were, in the beginning, carefully measured strokes, are now basic, instinctive, elemental as a tide. Sweat beads on your back; we grip and gasp for air before we're swept under. And from your throat, the sweetest sounds...

Sweet mother of God, so close... A little closer... oh, please...

"Are you going to come for me? Come on, baby.

God, I wish I could be there to watch you."

...

If I lie on my left, I should be able to curl up around your legs while you smoke. I should be able to drift gently into the eges of sleep listening to your measured inhalation, exhalation, tap. Feeling your free hand stroke my back or rest on my hip.

If I roll onto my right, there should be warm, strong arms--one beneath my neck, one tight around my ribs. There should be a nose behind and below my ear. There should be warmth and security and an exchange of "I love you" before sleep.

My hands and memory may be able to "relieve the pressure" as well as yours do. But neither of them can do a damn thing to make the cold feather pillow at my back feel anything like your chest and stomach. And that's the real pressure that winds me clock-tight.

Nothing to do but accept it and reach for sleep.

Tomorrow there'll be a life to live, maybe work to do, and a phone call or two to keep it at bay.

But it still remains that I miss you.

Love you.

Love you, too.

I *will* come back to this.

Nails slide across my skin, tripping the light pressure receptors, making the fine hairs rise. My eyes drift closed and I can almost pretend I don't know where the nails will touch down next.

Across my stomach: the memory of your palms on my belly when you wake up starts a slow burn from gut to core. Up my thighs: I can almost feel the soft hairs that cover your legs brushing against my skin. Lazy trails along my collarbone, around the sides of my breasts: I crave your callouses, your warmth, your weight...

Thumbs stroke nipples, skim the ridges of puckering flesh. Press the hardened nubs between thumb and forefinger. Harder, sparking that sweet icewhite fire. Harder, and feel the slow burn burst into slickness. Now we're getting somewhere.

...

"God, you're wet," was the first thing you said, the first time you touched me. I was a little relieved that my body hadn't let me down, but at the same time, a little embarrassed by how enthusiastically it had responded.

To give you room to work, I slid my belt free of its loops. You stopped me before I could do more, though. "If you start that, we won't stop." Bit my tongue against asking what made you think we'd stop from here? "Let me relieve the pressure," you said. "You must be wound tighter than a clock."

I was. But the fast, light circles you were tracing only wound me tighter still. You held on to me like you thought I would fly to pieces when I came. I think I nearly did. Fully clothed and clutching your free hand like it would keep me from falling off the world. I'd never been so scared or so happy.

...

Fast, light circles, round and round. I can hear thoughts turning to whitenoise and I'm as wet as the first morning, but I can't find your free hand...

...

Your fingertips across my neck, my back, my shoulders, gathering every last flyaway hair into your other hand. I try to keep my face neutral, but it's hard to do when you're being so subtle and sweet in broad daylight. How often had I mentioned wondering how your hands in my hair would feel? Once? Twice? And so here you are, creating our own little bubble in all the crowd and hubbub around us.

Then you squeeze. Slowly, gently, and I know you've got more. More power, more force. But you don't use it. You don't have to. I can feel it waiting in your hands. Strong hands that're ready to catch me if I sway. This is how it feels.

The blissed-out smile spreads across my face, warm as the sunlight that just broke the clouds above us. I don't realise I'm beaming like an idiot until you let go, run fingers through in parting, and I look over to see a mutual friend looking a question at you. We're made, but oddly enough, that's alright.

One fantasy down, I can almost hear you saying. The rest of them to go, if you'll come to me.

...

One hand buried in my hair, this clench is nothing like the promise of April. More like the half blind hold you take when I take you in my mouth. God, the texture of you...woven silk over stone, only stone doesn't hold heat that way, doesn't pulse with its own life, doesn't move so satisfyingly at the faintest touch of teeth. Stones don't gasp when I flick them with my tongue.

I want your cock right now so badly I can taste it. And honestly, I don't care how I get it.

Fingers slide home and stretch--has it been that long?. Hook. And there's that beautiful patch of flesh, there's the spot you know so well how to exploit. The gasp is free of my lips before I can stop it; the scent of sex rises with the rhythm of movement.

...