I Want Him To Have Me.

When he starts to move I realize that until now it hasn’t even begun. Everything to this moment was just building my tolerance, filling me with inch after inch and stretching me out and making it so that I can take him, before he can give himself to me properly.

Something shifts in him and I feel it in his body. I feel it in his hands as they tighten their grip on me and then he pulls me into him, a grumbling growl rolling up from somewhere primal deep within him.

Never is our animalistic nature more obvious than when we are in the throes of passion. People are reduced down to base impulses then and you can dress it up with silk sheets and perfume and candles and rose petals or you can have it doggedly simplistic, but in the end it’s all the same when you’re in the middle. When you’re in the middle you’re just animals rutting and grunting and grabbing and pulling and begging for more.

Gasping breath and ragged pulses and dragging fingernails and I’ve had it before. It may not have been frequent and I can’t say that it was every overwhelmingly good, but I’ve had it and I’ve felt it and I know it. I know that it could be more.

It could be better.

It could be… oh god it could be so good.

I know it. I know it in my heart and I can feel that this man of my dreams and this feminine body that I occupy right now could make such beautiful music together. Something that touches the primal animalistic heart of me and makes us so much more than what we are in our heart of hearts.

Animals rutting in the dirt. Gods transcendent in the warmth of our passion.

I reach for him and what starts as a caress turns to a pull as he pulls back from me. I feel him leaving me and I don’t want him to go and I tighten my legs, pushing the heels of my feet into the small of his back like he’s a horse I’m spurring on. I grab at him and hold on, ready to tense all of myself and fuck myself onto him if he tries to leave me because I want him.

This is my fantasy and I want him. I want him to have me.

And maybe it’s because it’s my fantasy or maybe it’s because he just knows what he’s doing, but I don’t need to say it. He just gives it to me. He just gives me what I fucking need.

He pulses forward and I take all of him in a single shuddering thrust. He pushes the heat of his thickness into me and I cry out and the tension overtakes me and I hold onto him, tight around him by every possible means as my cry turns from surprise to anguish to pleasure and then dwindles as the heat of him loosens my muscles enough for him to pull back and thrust forward once more.

Again. Again and again. Again and again and again as he pushes into me and I feel him moving and shaping me, holding and guiding me to heights defined by shuddering pleasure and saccharine ecstasy.

God I can feel the electric rush running through me. I can feel my body adjusting to the sensations. I can feel sweat prickling out on my skin and I can feel him, I can feel every last inch of him when he is inside of me.

My sex tight around his cock. Squeezing and tensing around him and feeling every bump and ridge, every vein and pulsing throbbing moment of him. I can feel his cock and though I’ve never seen it I could recreate it perfectly out of clay if I wanted to.

I could memorize the feel of him, and I will never forget the moment he made me more than I ever thought I could be.

Never forget the way he defined not just his body but my own. The way his touch made my skin so very present to me. The way his breath on my neck made the hairs on my skin stand up on edge and goosebumps stand out begging for more.

“Kiss me,” I begged him with a breathy moan, “Caress me. Feel me.”

He did. His lips closing onto the nape of my neck as his hands ran up my sides and his chest pressed down on my breasts and then I begged him for even more than that.

“Fuck me,” I begged him, “Fuck me now and never stop.”

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