Snake your fingertips down my spine,
Trace the top edge across my back,
Smooth your fingers under that twisted strap,
Slide your palm down my textured side,
Conforming to its curves.
I climb into the bath, water hot as I can tolerate
my movements and mind mellow, thoughts become languid and lax
the heat and steam seem to reignite the pilot light at the meeting of my thighs
feeling vacant yet reawakened, I ache
Yes, I’m small, and light. Yes, I look graceful — delicate, even.
Yes, you’re taller. Bigger. Stronger. Yes, you can pick me up, toss me around, pin me down.
But I’m strong too. And flexible, and wriggly.
So when we wrestle, I will give you a run for your money.
And the only way you’ll win clean
is if I want you to.
I want to go for a ride, but I want you to drive.
I don’t need to know exactly where we’re going. Take me on the scenic route.
There’s no speed limit here…
Floor it, throw me back into the seat, downshift and accelerate into the curves.
Make me laugh in delight… or swallow my smile until
it turns into a conspiratorial smirk,
my glittering eyes peeking
through lowered lashes.
I like my short hair because
it doesn’t get in my face, and it doesn’t accidentally get leaned on;
“just-fucked” hair is never a big deal;
the nape of my neck is always exposed
especially when he
I’ve got a pixie cut, short back and sides. Short. Clippers short.
I want him to grab my hair at the nape of my neck, twine it around his fist, pull my head back sharply.
I want him to breathe on my neck and lick me.
I want him to kiss me deeply, control me.
But my hair is too short.