Your Weekly Dose

Hello dirty friends,

I am going to take August off. I will wear as little clothing in this damp heat as possible, and touch myself as much as I can. May I suggest you do the same?

It'll be a nice month.

Kisses,
Megan

Every time you slam into me, I lose my grip on the back of the chair.

I lay the length of my body against yours. My hip bones meet yours, our toes entangle. My nipples brush yours when I arch back.

Your eyes glaze. I can feel my pupils dilate.

You swirl your fingers in the long hairs at the nape of my neck, then smile dreamily as you run them down my back to catch my ass and squeeze it.

I feel strong like this. My lines feel clean and my torso long. Strong like I could pull you up inside me if I chose. I don’t, not yet. The tension builds electric snaps along my thighs and across my hips. All the muscles inside gather. I am spinning and spinning and stretching. Open, opened, away.

Spreadeagled. We are sweating. Still limbs, closed eyes. No blankets, though the humid air feels like one. Slow moving as it is in the wake of the fan.

I can feel you turn your head, feel you looking at me. I shake my head. Feel another bead collect between my breasts.

You place both hands on my sternum, one on top of the other. Gently, your full palm, the weight of your other hand. The bulk of your body the promise or threat behind them. I squirm. Breath shallow. Chest tight. I clench and unclench my hands, curl and uncurl my toes.

You're talking. You're nothing over the ebb and flow of my blood. You lift one hand, slap me sharp, pulling back hard at the last second. My eyes sting. I might be crying.

I try to rock my hips until you pin them with your knees. Still me.

Before you blindfolded me, you made me hold my ears open while you gently inserted the plugs. I watched the planes of your face harden as the sound of my blood grew loud. Then only air and the press of your palms as you moved me.

Now I can only go with what my skin tells me. Sparks and whispers.

I am kneeling in the middle of the room. You are close, the dense air against my chest tells that story. Nothing for seconds, just the room's slow spin with me at its centre.

Then a nudge at my lips, a gentle pushing open. Too thick for your fingers. The rubbery head of your cock. I open wide, my teeth slide over the smooth wet ridge.

You touch me lighter than the air. Smooth under the covers, like cooling
waves at shore. I drift. You take your time. Spread
the sensation from one body part to the next. Diffused through membrane
and membrane. That or the fever
has me humming throughout.

One hand on my belly, stroking up around my breasts, just skimming the pebbled
nipples; the other draws a tidal ellipse between my thighs; the blood gathers and swells
my lips. A pause,

a pause. I watch your face, eyes skimmed with a salt lust stare; I wait.
Your fingers tense up with all that heat when you slide one in my cunt.

I close my eyes. Slip my tongue into your mouth.

Your teeth are smooth, slick. Silk and velvet.

In your spit over my tastebuds, you feed me the name of every soft slippery thing. I dissolve into the current. You take your time. I loosen, my skeleton swept away.

You take your prey. Bite down. I try to pull out.

This way you're sharp, rough. I'm scraped and sanded, held firm.

I'll take each of your nipples between my thumbs and middle fingers. Hold them, firmly enough to let you know I will squeeze them hard, soft enough to keep you from guessing when. Graze the tips from time to time with forefinger or flat tongue.

Then a breath.

Your arched back and shivers in soft streams of air.