Whisper your words. Whisper them in my ear. Feed my soul with your lines, your prose, your tangled, twisting mind. Whisper them in that space one inch, no—one centimeter—above my body.

But don’t touch me.

Instead let me feel your hot breath warm my flesh as you speak oh so softly. Whispering. Soothe me with your magic potion of vowels, consonants and punctuation. Coat me with them. Pour them over me like one applying organic honey on a burn. Paint pre-Raphaelite pictures of us bathing in crystal lily ponds in the center of an enchanted wood.

But don’t touch me.

Just keep whispering. Tell me what you want to do to me and watch as I begin doing those things to myself. Feel yourself harden as I run my hands over my erect nipples teasing them into even sharper points. Control your throbbing when I reach between my moist folds and touch where you so want to be. Fight to keep whispering, right in my ear as my legs fall open to reveal my most secret of places. Take your aching spear in hand and bring yourself to the very brink as my screams begin to drown you out. Grit your teeth as you spill your seed on my pale, waiting belly. Breathe.

Now. Now you may touch me.

27 thoughts on “Whisper

  1. Aah, literary orgasm you provide. Such a way to write with pleasure. I just love it. The whispering and the need to touch, in slow mo, this ride you make delightful. :)

  2. “Paint pre-Raphaelite pictures of us bathing in crystal lily ponds” – classy. what a touch. nice, the way control passes from his words to her gestures, fading from discourse to wet sounds – to final touch. nice one u

Talk to me. Please.

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