Gorgeous Addiction

Twists and turns of turning hips, and burning lips. Tell me. How can fire feel so moist? My blood rejoices and boils to every touch of her body as she coils around my own. Friction in a love story, never fiction, and I’m fixated on this adventure. This expedition of my gentle propositions replied with her permission to clench her hands with my own. And her grasp is so tight, so tight. So right in ways that are so wrong to speak of, but I love being wrong. My being is gone because she takes it away to a place somewhere between dreams and imagination, and leaves my body between sheets and sweet sensations. Sweet to the taste, the aftertaste, and later I know I’m going to crave her, this flavor that never satisfies the hunger, but only makes it greater. A gorgeous addiction, and I’m gorgeously addicted, with no intention to openly fix it. Soon to be a habit, and I’m not willing to kick it. I’m high off the fumes from her excessive exhaling functions, and I become consumed by own daring consumptions.