Be fair, Vevay. I had to shower and shave. It takes time, isn't that so? The other was surely no more than a few moments, as provoked as I was.
Well. The first.
Thinking about your hands - and of water rushing along your body, dampening the vines, and how tattoos darken when wet - made it so once wasn't enough. How I would love to see you in water.
[...]
That's another thing you can talk with me about in two days, when I'm alone. Water against your skin; what is the word -
Rivulets along your shoulder, down your back. [...] Wine also, to catch with my tongue.
Would you let me do this to you, as well? I'd like to see a drop roll along your skin. Your thigh, maybe. Your throat.
Other places.
[...]
I asked you to stop torturing me. I never said I would stop giving you thoughts to keep you warm.
Ah, but only if you don't mind. If it's wanted. If I know it pleases you, then I can ignore the cringing within myself. You respond so eagerly it makes me surprised; you must know that isn't a familiar experience for me.
[...]
You mentioned my poetry. I don't like speaking of sex [...] or anything intimate with focus on the bare act, or on the components. What I would do with my cock and how - ah, it's well for joking, but it signifies something about the way a man thinks of himself, doesn't it? And about how he thinks of his lover.
He inhabits his "manhood", and his partner is only for receiving what he gives.
It doesn't make me uncomfortable in the same way, to speak of it. Perhaps because it's so base, or disconnected.
The connection thrills me. Knowing what you like, and that we share so many pleasures, thrills me. Speaking to you of all the things in between, around the what and how and cocks is where I find myself shaken.
Light and shadow on your body, which must be unclothed, must be arranged to allow the light. For a drop of wine to roll down any part of you, you must position yourself. Bend your knee. Arc your throat.
For me to taste you as you take me in your own mouth, you must kneel over me.
Do you see?
You participate. You enjoy, you welcome. Hopefully, you burn under my hands as I would under yours.
Sex - fucking quiets the inferno built by all of this; it sates. (Unless the fucking becomes a key component. Even then, Vevay, where is my attention, eh? Your cock or where your legs and hands might be? How your body works against mine.)
It still makes me uneasy. If it's spoken, it's gone in the next moment. Here, the evidence remains of possible missteps, which so far haven't been missteps.
The intensity of it startles me, I think. To my own mind, it seems explicit to an extreme, such that I'm left wondering that you aren't disgusted with me.
I've felt the disgust of others.
I've felt my own for others when their words were the what and how of their "throbbing" anythings.
[...]
Forgive me this [...] wondering. Supposition? Would you tell me if I'm right or wrong?
I wonder if your cock isn't central to your sense of desire as it is with some other men. If you feel it deeper, tidal, as I do. Maybe having some control of physical expressions of desire makes it easier to pay attention to the depth.
I'll admit, there is a point when even I am blinded and made base by physical need. Less so now with age although if anyone can provoke me to saying unspeakable things, I think it would be you
Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad for it. I'm glad you enjoy more than just the core act.
1/2
Well. The first.
Thinking about your hands - and of water rushing along your body, dampening the vines, and how tattoos darken when wet - made it so once wasn't enough. How I would love to see you in water.
[...]
That's another thing you can talk with me about in two days, when I'm alone. Water against your skin; what is the word -
Rivulets along your shoulder, down your back. [...] Wine also, to catch with my tongue.
Would you let me do this to you, as well? I'd like to see a drop roll along your skin. Your thigh, maybe. Your throat.
Other places.
[...]
I asked you to stop torturing me. I never said I would stop giving you thoughts to keep you warm.
Ah, but only if you don't mind. If it's wanted. If I know it pleases you, then I can ignore the cringing within myself. You respond so eagerly it makes me surprised; you must know that isn't a familiar experience for me.
[...]
You mentioned my poetry. I don't like speaking of sex [...] or anything intimate with focus on the bare act, or on the components. What I would do with my cock and how - ah, it's well for joking, but it signifies something about the way a man thinks of himself, doesn't it? And about how he thinks of his lover.
He inhabits his "manhood", and his partner is only for receiving what he gives.
It doesn't make me uncomfortable in the same way, to speak of it. Perhaps because it's so base, or disconnected.
The connection thrills me. Knowing what you like, and that we share so many pleasures, thrills me. Speaking to you of all the things in between, around the what and how and cocks is where I find myself shaken.
Light and shadow on your body, which must be unclothed, must be arranged to allow the light. For a drop of wine to roll down any part of you, you must position yourself. Bend your knee. Arc your throat.
For me to taste you as you take me in your own mouth, you must kneel over me.
Do you see?
You participate. You enjoy, you welcome. Hopefully, you burn under my hands as I would under yours.
Sex - fucking quiets the inferno built by all of this; it sates. (Unless the fucking becomes a key component. Even then, Vevay, where is my attention, eh? Your cock or where your legs and hands might be? How your body works against mine.)
It still makes me uneasy. If it's spoken, it's gone in the next moment. Here, the evidence remains of possible missteps, which so far haven't been missteps.
The intensity of it startles me, I think. To my own mind, it seems explicit to an extreme, such that I'm left wondering that you aren't disgusted with me.
I've felt the disgust of others.
I've felt my own for others when their words were the what and how of their "throbbing" anythings.
[...]
Forgive me this [...] wondering. Supposition? Would you tell me if I'm right or wrong?
I wonder if your cock isn't central to your sense of desire as it is with some other men. If you feel it deeper, tidal, as I do. Maybe having some control of physical expressions of desire makes it easier to pay attention to the depth.
I'll admit, there is a point when even I am blinded and made base by physical need. Less so now with age
although if anyone can provoke me to saying unspeakable things, I think it would be youWell, whatever the reason, I'm glad for it. I'm glad you enjoy more than just the core act.
I'm very glad you like my words. I think?