A Sexual Fantasy

— By Eve Jones

This is the season of sex. Sensuality is in blossom and I want to devour the fruit, eat it whole. Tonight I imagine Spring wearing this dress and getting into my bed, with you beside her, waiting. She’s lovely. Tanned and beautiful, full and flush where I am slim. A women of earth and clay and sun on heated stones. You look at her as though she is a ripe fruit, begging to be eaten. Ravishing to look at, breasts heavy and full, and when you rake your hand up her thigh her mouth parts with a wild sigh. Her dark hair spreads a halo on the pillows as you press her back. For a while I only watch, and I cannot help but imagine my body over the map of hers. Watching your hands caress and coax her, I can feel how they would feel on me. Your every gesture is one of order and disorder, want. I do not watch for long because when you look at me it is with a command. Come here. And we fall into each other’s hunger and devour Spring together. I leave kisses and bites around her chest like barbaric flower jewelry. She moves, her face pressed against my breasts. I am gentle and you are hard, your hands and mouth like stones where mine are wind and water. Spring laughs between us, a sound like showers, running water. I hold her open as she moans in pleasure and desire in the restraints of my arms and mouth. She is made for sensuality and I slide my fingers over her past her lips, into the wet heat of her mouth. Slick. Her tongue slick and burred, strong against my fingers as she sucks and pulls. I draw them away slopping, drool on her chin, on my hands that slide, wet, down her chest, the soft of her stomach, the swell of her sex, hot, wet as her mouth. I splay my fingers, reach farther, her moans singing out with the new sensations as I close my fingers gently, feeling the place where your cock vanishes inside her. My touch is gentle, so I’m not sure if you can feel me, except that you are looking right at me, past the season half paralyzed with pleasure between us and I know you can.