mistletoe
Sometimes I’m hopelessly romantic and I have a longing for the past or I long for something that perhaps only exists in my head. In English there’s a beautiful word for that, ‘yearning’, or longing for desire.
For example Christmas Eve.
The most magical night of all nights. At least, in my opinion.
You’ve chosen and laid out my clothes.
I find it super sexy when a man does that for me.
You want me to wear a beautiful stylish black dress, with a split that seems to have no end.
I see a new pantyhose.
There is a hole in it. But no need to panic.
Au contraire. It is exactly in the right place, just where I want it.
Where you chose it.
Thank you for knowing me so well.
My pantyhose has an open crotch.
Perfect for a long sit at a dinner table.
That same table is beautifully covered.
Everyone and everything is in its right place.
You make sure you’re sitting right in front of me.
You and me, we gaze in each other’s eyes, that power of eye contact makes me want you right there and then.
The atmosphere takes over, warm and horny. Or is it the other way around? Is it us who influence the atmosphere?
While the host is making a toast, I open my legs.
As wetness develops my legs begin to open further and my spot turns to a backdraft and all I want you to do is extinguish it.
I look at you. I lick my lips unobtrusively and push my breasts forward. They ask for it.
I feel my horniness. Temperature’s rising.
By the time everyone eats his or her appetizer,
mine is yours.
You just don’t use your fingers, I think you know what I mean?
I move a bit on my chair,
because I really want (you) to feel (me) good.
The starter is a creamy soup,
It is hot.
Although, right now, I think I maybe hotter.
The spoom of pineapple and champagne with cassis berries and vanilla foam,
is like the fluid that I feel between my legs.
Sweet and tasty.
It tastes like more.
You taste like more.
I don’t know how you do it, but you do it.
While it seems like our attention is on the food and it looks like we are involved in the conversation that’s going on, you continue your way. Barefoot.
Slow at first, but you look into my eyes. Those eyes of me, how do you always seem to know just what I want or what I need. You read me like no other. And I let you.
You increase the tempo. You go back and forward, yes, even for a moment, in me. You don’t hesitate and you’re manly determined.
It works.
The main course comes when I come too. Quiet, subdued, but so intense, and all neatly with our hands above the table. Are you still following me?
Unnoticed, I go with my fingers between my legs. I go inside me and touch my clitoris who is swollen horny from my orgasm just now.
My face radiates with after-glow.
When the dessert is served and our friends play each other playfully, because they get a little bit intoxicated from the wine and I sincerely hope each other, I let you have a taste of me.
You lick my fingers. You suck gently. I see your tongue pink between your lips and I want it between mine.
This Christmas, the game (menu) is on, and luckily not on the table, but underneath.
My own private 5-course dinner. I can’t wait to meet the cook. I will give him a Chef’ Special.
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All artwork by Puck Rietveld