“You inspire my writing,” I whispered lightly into your ear expecting to feel your pride swell at the vulnerability of my confession. Sitting here with my feet up in the rail looking out over the first warm day of summer, I realize that you did not feel stronger. You felt disbelief. Maybe at the simple honesty of my words…or the way you felt when you heard them…or the confusion at hearing a woman say them about you…or a biased image you hold in your mind of the man you see in the mirror. Not even your ego would let you past those simple words I whispered to you…
“You inspire my writing.” Not in the cover of darkness when lies are easiest and eyes are hidden behind the secrets of lust. No, as the reality of daylight when your slow, sexy smile spreads over the curve of your lips tempting me to lean forward and taste your mouth…just for a moment…or two…or more…indulging in the fantasy of your lips on my nipples painfully straining against the tight fabric stretched over my breasts…waiting for you to decide you want to play with me.
“You inspire my writing.” Not in the afterglow of bodies sticking together from sated sexual pleasures. No, in the way small sexual comments without apologies while we are talking entices my sexuality to come and play with visuals fragmented like broken glass sending pulses of aching need ripping through me…my hand on your zipper daring you to stop me…kneeling between your legs with your dick pressed against my cheek…my eyes on yours…my sexual soul throbbing with the want to feel you hard on my tongue…hearing your moan of pleasure against your sharp intake of breath…yet again…and again.
“You inspire my writing.” Not for the arrogance of manhood that most men suffer ignorantly to aid their sexuality. No, for the flavor of your sensuality you share willingly that mixes the charismatic chaos of intensity of an experienced teacher with the innocence of an eager student enticing me take and be taken…repeatedly…in ripples of sexual vibrations overwhelming me instantly as tears blur my vision.
“You inspire my writing.” Not from the overly touchy assault forcing sexual contact without intimacy most men try without understanding my mind and sexual soul. No, it is the slight touches of your hand brushing against mine or watching your hands move sensually to complete even the most basic task that sends shivers of sensations of your strong, masculine fingers slick with cum deep within the folds of the sensitive pink skin between my thighs masturbating multiple moments of creamy bliss.
“You inspire my writing…” I share those words with you hoping that your disbelief comes from wanting too much for them to be true. The words were so simple and true to me. I hope your disbelief comes from needing to understand and touch the sexual vibrations locked deeply within your own soul as much as see yourself as the sexy man I see…to accept the invitation to mentally indulge your sexual appetites and bath in the confidence of a man who makes a woman feel her sexuality so deeply.
Take my hand, lover…the fear last a moment, but the freedom lasts a lifetime!