Can You Do That? [MF] [possessive] [carnal] [need to be needed]

When I’m standing a breath away from you, bring your hands to my back and pull my lips to yours. Wrap your arms around me so as to stifle out all space between us. Trace your fingers up the curve of my back until silk meets skin. There’ll be a zipper there. Give it a tug.

Smooth your hands under my bodice, cupping my breasts as the fabric falls away. Lap down to the hinge of my neck and suck it enough to bruise as the hair on my arms raises and the blood rushes to my face and my nipples stand tall under your palms, which become fingertips brushing just gently enough to make me gasp in your ear.

Run your hands down the gooseflesh of my back, warm with wanting you, to the curve of my arse. Dig your nails into the softness there; clutch me close to you as the last of my modesty hits the ground. Pull me far enough into you that I can feel how much you want me—then lean into my ear and tell me.

Step away and study me. Proclaim me Aphrodite for the modern age. Look at my body to learn it. The places I’m the roughest are the places that demand the most love. Make a roadmap of all the spots you must visit: the back of my ear; the curve of my jaw; the swell of my belly; the joining of thigh and hip; the arch of my foot; my unsteady ankle.

Circle me and kiss all of these into stars. Join the constellations with traces of your tongue, breathy and shameless, all leading you to my centre. Nuzzle your nose into the crease of my mound; let your eyes carry your thirst to mine before you open up and take me in.

I have wanted you for so long. I have wanted to give you this for so long.

The slopes of my lower lips in between your fingers, parting to make way for your tongue to lap at the channel from which we all came—where, hopefully, you will come. Throw my leg over your shoulder just as I start to tremble, always on time to catch me. Let the moan bubble up from your heart as you taste me, as I exude passion in this tangible nectar you never want to stop drinking. I can’t see through the spots dancing in my eyes but I know this font will never be closed to you, that between your saliva and my squalene I am rapidly becoming something messy and used and, god, I want you to use me, and I only just manage to say so, even as I tug your hair deeper between my thighs, and you laugh into my cunt, and god, I have never been so prepared to take anything as I am you.

You dig into my thighs before giving in to my breathless pleas, letting me kiss you wreckedly as I tear at your clothes, grinning into the flavour at our futile attempts to divest you of anything at all. I take in enough air to stop the pounding in my head and my heart and elsewhere, enough to circle you as you did me.

I am a quick study, and I learned you long ago.

Fingertips trace your shoulders; arms wrap around from behind to unbutton your shirt, one hand running under the fabric to rub your chest, the other traveling down to creep under your waistband and wrap firmly around your cock. This way, I can feel your heartbeat in both hands.

The hand holding your prick gently leads you to face me, and I continue to clutch it—just enough to make your head hang in frustration—as I slip off your sleeves and unfasten your belt with my free hand.

Your hands have made their way to my ribcage, nestling under the slope leading to my waist to ground yourself in my frame before I release you to work your trousers to the ground, holding your calves steady as you step out of them and kick them aside.

You expect me to rise back to meet you, but I only do so halfway: just enough to slip your leaking prick between my breasts. I can’t help but adore the way your head snaps back as you mindlessly, without warning, rut up against my sternum, allowing the softest parts of me to caress you, careless for appearance or shame.

When the tip of your head reaches forward, I dart my tongue around it, eager in part to taste you and part to make you groan soapworthy profanities; at some point you jerk back, out of my grasp, and I’m going for your cock with my hands when you pull me up roughly and hurl me toward the bed.

“Later,” you gasp, settling me down with just enough regained control to brush my hair out of my face with one hand as you rub up and down your cock with the other. You once whispered in my ear, “Every moment until I’m inside you is torture,” which has made me cum, to date, seventeen times, and I believe it enough to know that grasping at yourself is the only way you can avoid shoving into me immediately.

You move your other hand to caress my lips and open me up, but it’s me who pulls you cock-first to the place I’m gaping for you to fill, and you do, all at once, and it’s slick but tight, and the both of us are trembling for a moment as you adjust to the feeling of me slick and squeezing around you, I to the feeling of you pulsing and stopping me up.

I want you to speak first. I want you to put it into words. And then I want you to drag your prick all the way out of me, slow enough to feel every millimetre, before driving clean back up to my core.

I want you to push my thighs up so your thighs meet them with every wave; I want you to push them apart so you can watch, enraptured, how you’re breaching me over and over. I want to see you overwhelmed at how we are no longer separate, at how my body accepts your intrusion and beckons you home.

I want to feel you swell and throb, hot and unyielding as iron, and I want to feel your teeth in my shoulder when you hit the point of no return.

I want you to tell me what you’re doing when you do it. I want to know you know you’re about to spill your seed inside me, and I want to know that it’s the only thing you can think to want. In this moment. Ever.

I want your hands scrabling at my back, your hips bashing against me, your prick jetting absolutely every last drop of you inside me. You made it for me. It’s mine to hold. It’s an honour I take seriously.

Can you do that?

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/k1qks7/can_you_do_that_mf_possessive_carnal_need_to_be