by E.K. Hornbeck

I lie next to you, above you, pushing your legs apart with my legs, my mouth on your breast, my hand below your waist making soft small circles, so softly as you like, as you push against me with warm and wet and wanting more. My throat thickens and it is hard for me to speak, to ask you the questions that I have wanted to ask; that I have been afraid to ask; that I will regret asking. I whisper to you, my voice catching, did you go down on him (a breathless "no"); with eyes closed, you push more against my hand. I ask again, with more, did you go down on him, baby (a breathless concession: "yes, baby"), as you reach for my hand with your hands, as you hold me in place, as your whole body trembles. As your breath returns, I move on top of you, over you, above you, your eyes still closed, my legs on either side of you, I imagine you — doing that — to him. You take me with both hands; you and your honesty release my lust.


E.K. Hornbeck lives in Charlotte, North Carolina and fights the good fight here.


Bill said...

Wow. This is powerful.

I learned a long time ago not to have these sorts of conversations. No good can come from them.

Anonymous said...

Very steamy 6.

Madam Z said...

I agree with Bill. "No good can come from"...these sorts of conversations." Why torture yourself? I also agree with anonymous; it is indeed a "very steamy 6!"

E.K. Hornbeck said...

Thanks, gang. I appreciate the feedback. Naturally, this was not autobiographical; it was just something I dreamed up. (Cough)