That writhing tide, which pulls at me ceaselessly. That overwhelming rush and tug and drawing back and surging forward again. Needing to feel everything even when feeling everything is overwhelming, and even when there are so many sensations and emotions that I can no longer sort or categorize them in my mind.

You held my neck against the wall with your unfamiliar hand. Your eyes on mine, on me, watching my eyes and my head nodding yes and my lips parting. A hand I had first touched just hours before. Hands and arms still blank canvas. I don’t remember our words, but I do remember your eyes. That heady mix of wonder and mischief and tenderness and absolute control.

Hand on neck on wall. You on me on your bed. My eyes on your face on my breast. Tongue on lips on cunt. Hands in hair grasping. Moans and purrs and gasps and growls.

We both seemed almost incredulous. Hesitant yet sure. Your hand on my throat. My overwhelming wetness. That writhing tide.