‘It was a soft and gentle kiss, one not meant to lead beyond itself…we had felt something warm and close, and we both probably wanted, half-consciously, to preserve that mood in some form. It was that kind of kiss.
But as with all kisses, it was not without a certain element of danger.’
– Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
I love to think about kissing you. I think about kissing you all the time. Yes, I love to think about fucking you, about the power of your cock and the wonderful work of your hands, but those thoughts are overwhelming. They make me squirm and pant, and they twist up my insides so much that I can’t do anything…
But I love to think about kissing you more. The memory of your lips against mine is enough to set my body alight. I want to feel the soft touch of you, I want to taste you and I want to melt into your arms. I want to kiss you all the time.
I can’t look at you without wanting to kiss you.
Sometimes kisses are just the beginning, teasing and tempting. Sometimes kisses are enough on their own, they are exactly what I need.
I remember small kisses against the corner of my mouth as you leave, rushed and brief, unconscious maybe.
I remember the first kisses. Eager, excited, before I knew what to expect.
I remember you pushing me against the doorframe and the urgency of your kisses as your hands began to explore my body. Your tongue probing my mouth and your teeth biting my lips.
I remember not kissing you…holding back, waiting, wanting, delaying.
I remember stolen kisses, tender kisses, kisses that barely work as I’m smiling so much, kisses when I’m crying, kisses when I’m angry, every day kisses, kisses that make me weak at the knees.
I remember kissing you when you say goodbye. I breath you in, trying to hold on to all of you before you go. A final taste, one last touch…until next time.