Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
I wish you were here.
With me.
Right now.
I wish you were lying beside me with your feet in my lap, telling me fun stories about what you did last week. Laughing when I tell you my own. Fetching me snacks from the kitchen when you go grab a drink for yourself.
I wish I could grind myself against you. Wrapping my legs around your waist and fucking my hips up so I can crush the slit of my crotch nice and tight against the semi-hard erection in yours. Enjoying every inch of it.
Even through two layers of denim.
Because neither of us has bothered to remove our jeans.
I wish you were here with me. With your jokes and your whimsy and your collection of thigh-high socks. Your adorable obsession with the most boring YouTube channels created by mankind.
I think about you all the time.
And I really really really wish you were here.
I wish you were on my sofa, with me lying across your bare thighs in my knickers, one bum cheek providing a handy, pervy surface on which you can roll a joint.
I wish you were here to appreciate, again, the way my sofa turns so seamlessly into a bed. I wish you were here, gently mocking me for never wanting to own a piece of furniture that doesn’t double up as at least one other thing. Wish you could roll around on my functional sofa bed.
Naked.
With me.
Teasing the entrance of my cunt with your cock – not yet quite plunging in. Pinning my hips so I can’t thrust upwards, laughing at me when I try to do that anyway. Driving me thoroughly mad with unsated need.
I wish you were here in my mouth. All taut and solid and twitching when I choke on it. I’d love to smell the clean-talc scent of your flesh as I bury my face in your stomach. Take a beat or two to breathe it in as I gag on the length of you, then come up for air spluttering and gasping. And giggling a bit too, because it’s funny how this has all become so serious all of a sudden.
I wish I could trace the curves of your hipbones with my fingertips. I wish you were here to look down at me while I did that. With your soft eyes and your warm smile and your patient, unshakeable calm.
I wish you were here, so much.
The only thing that’s better than you being here is the cosy sensation of missing you. Not worrying when you might text or whether at all. You will, or I will, it doesn’t really matter. I’m not worried that either of us is competing to be the most aloof. I’m pretty sure you want to text. I wish you the best of luck. But I’m also really excited to see which one of us breaks first.
I wish you were here, but if you were, it would burst this shining bubble of bright-eyed longing. Fragile though it is, I love how it feels inside: secure in the knowledge that you’ll sate my wish to see you eventually. In that comfortable place I can revel in this bittersweet pleasure of longing.
I’ll explain this to you better when the bubble bursts and you’re in my arms. Wrapped tight between my thighs, all warm and solid and kissing me. Rolling joints on my bare backside or fetching snacks from the kitchen or holding my hair tight while I swallow your dick. Taking the piss out of me, and letting me do the same to you, each joke a verbal kiss or touch or stroke that will be echoed physically in a moment.
I wish you were here in this moment. Gently mocking me for writing this. For eking out the joy of delayed gratification, enjoying the two-in-one pleasure that is both ‘seeing you’ and ‘anticipating the moment when I see you.’
Instead of just texting you one word:
Come.
