The room is drenched in silence, thick and velvet-soft... only the slow rustle of silk and the click of the harness as I glide forward... agonizingly slow. He arches beneath me, caged and trembling, every breath a plea, every inch of him straining for the kiss I withhold... savoring his helpless hunger like the first sip of red wine before the storm breaks.
Silk pools at my thighs as I sink into him… inch by deliberate inch… until I feel the tremble in his caged body, his core fluttering around me ... aching, desperate, obscene. The other fems watch in breathless silence, jeweled and still, as thunder stalks the windows. He shudders as I draw back, flesh clinging to me, hating the emptiness but helpless in its need. With just the head inside, he quivers ... craving the fullness, begging in silence for completion. His shame is a perfume I wear like pearls. That hunger ripples through him, coaxing a thick silver thread of need to the tip ... pearl white, trembling, ready to fall… only for another to rise and swell behind it. So tragic, so beautiful… and still so perfectly caged.
The silk of my sleeves whispers
as I take him in hand
not with tenderness,
but the idle curiosity
of a queen examining
a newly minted coin.
How pretty they are,
stretched taut like this,
skin gleaming under oil lamp glow,
each vein a river mapped
for my fingers to explore.
I weigh them,
roll them slow as prayer beads,
feel the heat,
the fullness
that desperate, liquid pressure
building beneath my touch.
.......................................incomplete. Can't find the right words.
My fingers curl around the base of him...warm, thick, impossibly smooth...and I begin to draw the skin back, slow and deliberate.
Inch by inch, the head emerges from its sheath like something ancient being revealed, reverent and primal all at once.
He’s a deep, velvety shade of plum...almost bruised at the tip...glistening with a soft sheen that catches the low light like polished stone. Bulbous, shaped like a crown, flaring slightly at the ridge and narrowing at the neck, where that tender skin pulls taut behind it.
The contrast between the darker shaft and the flushed, swollen head is hypnotic. There’s weight in my hand...substantial, heavy, proud...and it twitches slightly under my palm, as though aware of my gaze.
I pause, just to admire him. Not out of politeness or performance...but fascination. This wasn’t just arousal. It was sculpture. Flesh made into something unapologetically male, unapologetically mine.
The skin stays drawn back, stretched behind that gleaming tip like a ribbon pulled off a gift. I slide my thumb just beneath the ridge, feeling the faint pulse, the heat of him, and he groans...low, helpless, like he’s already half-undone.
And I smile, because this...this...is power that asks nothing but to be touched.
I lower myself slowly, deliberately, never breaking my gaze from him...because he needs to see this. Needs to know that I’m not just giving...I’m devouring.
As my lips meet the tip, I pause again. There’s a moment of stillness, like the space between lightning and thunder. He’s flushed and glistening, the head firm against the softness of my mouth. The taste...salt, skin, heat, him...blooms instantly on my tongue.
I press a kiss there, slow and reverent, feeling the way his hips shift, the way his breath catches in his chest like he’s holding something back.
Then I draw him in, just the head at first, letting the heat of my mouth wrap around him.
He pulses against my tongue, the ridge of him dragging over my lips as I pull back slightly, then take him again, deeper this time. Not rushed...savored.
My hand slides along his length as I work in rhythm, coaxing every sound from him...those soft, choked noises he only makes when he’s too far gone to pretend.
The weight of him, the salt-slicked taste, the growing tremble in his thighs...it all lights something deep in me. Not just desire. Possession.
I hum softly around him, and his whole body tenses.
I know this power.
And I know exactly what to do with it.
I hold him in my palm, the flushed, dark head framed by the paleness of my hand...my skin marble white, smooth and luminous under the low light, almost ethereal.
Against that, he looks carved from shadow...deep brown-ish black, like polished obsidian warmed from within. He’s not just darker...he's radiant in his darkness, absorbing light while I seem to reflect it.
The contrast makes everything feel more vivid. My hand looks smaller wrapped around him, more delicate, more possessive.
Where my thumb meets the slick crown of him, the sight is almost startling: a soft, pinkish-white tip pressing into the deep brown seam at his center. Like dusk meeting moonlight.
I part him again...barely, reverently...my pale fingers like alabaster tools, careful, devoted. The way the slit yields, glistens, responds to me… it feels like watching day kiss night, and night giving in.
My tongue follows next, almost innocent against the sultry darkness of his skin, and yet the moment is anything but innocent.
I taste him again...directly from the source...and he trembles.
He’s not just in my hand. He’s in my care.
And I realize something with aching clarity:
He could break me with those hips, with that body, with the sheer intensity of what he holds inside...
...but right now, all that power is pulsing in my hand, at the mercy of my kiss, my breath, my worship.
And the contrast of us...light and shadow, marble and earth...isn’t just beautiful.
It’s blessing.
I shift slightly in the soft light, my hand still wrapped gently around his base.
My skin...pale, almost translucent in places...seems to glow against the deep black of his shaft. The contrast is stark, hypnotic. Marble and obsidian. Ice and fire. My fingers look almost ghostly as they curl around the thick, dark column of him...delicate and sharp against his solid, pulsing heat.
He’s a study in power. His shaft is dark as night, velvety smooth, the kind of black that doesn’t just absorb light...it dares you to touch it. And above that, where the skin is pulled tight behind the flare of his head, the color shifts...
Deep red. Not bright, not pink. But the kind of crimson that speaks of blood, of breath, of pressure. It’s alive. Like the last shade the sky turns before lightning splits it.
I breathe in and bring my mouth closer, my fingers gently framing the head so I can look...really look.
And there it is.
That tiny slit at the crown, just slightly open, wet with a clear sheen, like the mouth of something that speaks in pulses. The pink inside is shockingly delicate...almost glowing against the red flesh around it. Like the very center of a flower, or the blush beneath skin when heat rises from within.
My thumb brushes around the rim, white on red, pale on power. I press gently on the ridge, watching the skin yield beneath me, soft and firm at once.
My skin is porcelain, but his body is carved of something darker, bolder. There’s no blurring between us...no blending. We see each other. We feel the difference. And it makes everything sharper. More real.
My tongue darts out, just to taste the crown again. I part the slit gently with its tip, just enough to touch the pink, feel it twitch and open just a fraction more.
He jerks beneath me with a sound...half breath, half growl. And I feel it in my bones. That tremble. That control slipping.
The color, the contrast, the surrender...they all fold together into something heady, something more than physical.
His darkness against my white, his heat against my cool. We are opposites, and in this moment, we are one system. A single circuit of breath, pulse, and tension drawn tighter with every second I hold him in my mouth, in my hand, in my gaze.
I lick slowly along the slit again, drinking in not just the taste, but the meaning:
This is the threshold. The place where he gives. The place where he loses.
And I’m the one holding it open.
or another version.....
II let him slip from my lips, just enough to breathe...but not enough to break the spell.
The head rests against my tongue for a moment, heavy and warm, before I let it fall from my mouth entirely. A thread of moisture clings between us, thin and trembling.
I hold him steady in my hand, then shift slightly, bringing my face closer...not to take him again, but to look. To see.
He’s flushed darker now, a rich plum with hints of red where the tension pulses strongest. The skin is stretched back tight, ringed behind the head like silk pulled to its limit. The shaft is still dusky, veined, but the tip...
The tip is something else.
Smooth. Shiny. Tender. And at its very peak, the tiniest vertical parting...an opening so small it seems impossible that anything so powerful could pass through something so delicate.
I trace it with my eyes before I even dare touch. A thin, moist sheen glistens there. Not dripping...waiting. Like a secret held just behind a kiss.
I raise my thumb and the pad of it brushes across the slit...barely pressure at all.
He gasps. Not loud, not showy. A sharp, raw intake of breath, like his body can't quite believe I’d touch there.
The texture is like wet silk...velvety and alive. The tiniest movement, the tiniest pressure, makes him twitch violently in my grip.
I part it with the tip of my thumb, just enough to glimpse the soft pink just beneath the surface. It’s like peeking into the heart of something sacred and forbidden at once.
And I know...this is where he pours himself out.
From this tender little seam, he’ll spill everything...heat, surrender, essence. And the idea of it, that he’ll give that to me, here, soon...
It sends a shiver through me deeper than touch ever could.
I lean in again. This time not to take him whole, but to let my tongue find that slit. Slowly. Gently. A whisper of wet against wet.
And when I taste him...really taste him...that first salty drop that clings like a promise...
I moan. Quiet. Helpless.
Because this isn’t just lust. It’s communion.
I rise from between his legs like mist curling off warm water, slow and thick with promise. I don’t speak. Words would only collapse the weight of the moment.
He follows me...silently, hungrily...as I walk backward through the soft spill of golden light that glows like liquid candlewax across the floor. I take his hand and guide him toward the window, that towering sheet of glass suspended high above the sleeping city.
Outside, the world glimmers...rivers of traffic winding like molten veins through stone, buildings lit up like altars. But none of it matters. We’re in the sky now.
I stop at the glass and turn. Moonlight kisses my bare shoulders, my stomach, my thighs. My skin...marble white, like polished alabaster...seems to shimmer against the dark pane, becoming almost translucent.
He steps into me, and I gasp...not from surprise, but from the awe of his presence. His skin is deep, rich, black like volcanic glass...warm and light-absorbing. Against me, he is a living contrast. My pale, cool elegance. His dark, divine power.
I look down, and even now I pause to admire him.
He’s thick in my hand, pulsing, almost too beautiful to bear. The shaft is black as midnight satin, sleek and veined and impossibly hard. The head...glistening with my devotion...is a flushed, regal red, like blood and wine and the center of some forbidden fruit.
And there, at the crown, that delicate vertical slit...still faintly parted, soft pink within...calls to me. A sacred mouth that will soon speak its surrender.
I guide him to me, breath trembling, chest rising. The head rests at my entrance, searing hot against my slick skin. My thighs part, not from urgency, but offering. My leg wraps around his hip, drawing him in.
I look up into his eyes. He’s not just aroused. He’s reverent. This isn’t a man taking a woman...it’s a man being let in.
And then...
He enters me like midnight silk...thick, powerful, and impossibly smooth...filling me in a way that borders on sacred.
Slowly, deliberately, he slides deeper, until the tip presses past the edge of me and grazes places only he ever reaches...places that make my breath catch and my thoughts blur.
The fullness is overwhelming, exquisite...a stretch that feels like worship and possession all at once.
...the head sliding past my lips with slow, thick grace, stretching me open in an ecstasy of pressure and heat.
He’s too much and yet just enough, each inch forging a deeper connection, drawing sounds from my mouth that I don’t recognize as my own.
My inner walls grip him like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this shape. I feel him pressing upward, deeper, until the head kisses my cervix, until I can no longer tell where I end and he begins.
We are not lovers anymore. We are opposites forged into unity. Fire and frost. Shadow and pearl. Obsidian in ivory.
He moves inside me now...slow strokes like waves washing along a carved shoreline.
Behind me, the glass fogs with our heat. Below us, the world spins. But we are still...
two bodies, one rhythm, one altar.
With every glide, every sound, every breathless moan that passes between us, I know:
I am not being taken.
I am being honored.
To anyone reading my notes:
Everything I share here is about my relationship, past intimate moments I cherish, and fantasies I enjoy revisiting. It’s a mix of memories and daydreams, all honest and unfiltered.
I write things down when inspiration strikes, then tidy them up later. I’m a perfectionist by habit, but this is my way of loosening that grip—and practicing my English along the way. There’s something satisfying about moving my handwritten scraps into digital permanence, and I like sharing bits of them here.
I do this just for my own pleasure, and I might stop whenever I feel like it. If you enjoy what I post, great! But I’m not looking for anything in return.
KISSES!!!
Thank you Nika,
I appreciate the opportunity to look i to your love experience. I actually really enjoy your writing. If you don’t mind, I am wondering what your native language might be.
Regards
Allen