As it happens, I’ve spent a lot of time at home alone lately. With all that welcome solitude comes prolonged bouts of contemplation. And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…
Thinking about all the things I want to do you. And all the things I want you to do to me in turn.
I’m not good at it though. Asking for what I want, I mean. I’ve been a little too disconnected from myself, putting others first for a little too long, that I seem to have convinced myself that maybe I’m just not sure I know what I want.
Of course, that’s not true. I’ve just not yet developed the practice.
And you. You make me want to practice. We don’t see each other as often as either of us would like, but when we do… Oh, I feel all of the potential when I’m with you. You challenge me to want to be a better version of myself. Right down to the filthiest little details.
So, I’ve started. To practice naming what I want. So that one day I might be able to ask for it.
I want to talk.
I want to own my speech. Yes, while we’re fucking. But between romps too. Because that kind of talk is integral to how I light up.
I want to talk about limits. What are yours? What are mine? Where are the lines that we can flirt with? Where are the lines we must not cross? I want to explore all of our facets and map the topography of our joint terrain.
I want to talk about fantasies. The fun ones, the silly ones, the dark ones; the ones that have always been there, the ones that have been more recently uncovered; the ones that are goals, the ones that are meant to stay in the dreamworld; the ones that you would consider fulfilling or revisiting with me.
I want to know what excites you. I want to know what makes you uneasy.
I want us to take all the wild, informed risks together.
I want to tease.
You are a master of the art of subtlety; I want to feel that on every level.
I want to sneak filthy whispers into your ear and slip in unassuming touches, swollen with intention, while we’re short on privacy. Until every nerve is on fire. Until we can carve out a moment for proximity and lose ourselves in the flames.
I want that slow, quiet need of undulating morning sex after a night of harsh indulgence. When I can feel just how raw I am from the night before. Between my insatiable need and a little lube, it always feels better than ever.
I want to feel your fingers woven delicately in my hair when twilight creeps in, reminding me of the contrast of how firm your grip can be.
I want to take my time. Urgency lights my fires, but to move with, around, through you like eternity is ours and tomorrow is mythology—that’s what keeps my embers hot.
I want to play.
I want stolen moments in semi-public places, in and around cars, in proverbial back alleys behind pubs.
I want that giggly, silly, playful, oops I just fell off the bed and now I’m laughing too hard I need a minute sex.
I want to straddle you on the couch and make out with your stupid lovely face without haste. At least at first, because then I want to feel the inevitable rise take over, setting a new, more feverish pace.
I want cheeky (or scorching hot) messages and teasing (or in-your-face graphic) photos, even when there is no chance of seeing you for a while. I want to tell you about how I cope with all of that in the nearest public bathroom or my parked car.
I want to meet for a quick and dirty fuck. In the middle of the day. Then go about our afternoons like nothing happened. And I want to go away from that with the smell of you and me on my fingers, the taste of you at the back of my throat, at the very bottom of my exhale before I breathe you back in again.
I want to suck you from soft to hard and back again, drain you dry, drink down every last drop. And I want a high five when I’m done.
I want to learn.
I want to watch you touch yourself, bring yourself to orgasm any which way that speaks to you. Because I want to watch the process you’ve developed over time and practice. I want to know what you like; how you like to be touched.
I want to show you how I touch myself and have you show me what you see.
I want to find every one of your sensitive spots—the places that want to stay hidden. Record their responses and then figure out how to challenge them.
I want to uncover the things about myself that have gone unnoticed thus far. The things that, by nature, only you could evoke.
I want to study the nuances of your face while you sleep soundly next to me.
I want to challenge you.
I want to take your authority away. Strip you of your dominance. Restrain your limbs and stroke, and suck, and fuck you to the brink. Only to stop and force you to watch me pleasure myself. Watch me make myself come. Show you how I don’t need you there, but I very much want you to be.
I want to challenge your comfort levels to shatter your barriers. I want to watch you unravel under me. I want to see the manifestation of your trust in me and my touch.
I want urgency. I want to see you squirm in your skin, doing your utmost to listen to whatever I insist on pontificating about—whatever I’m intentionally drawing out to make to wait just a little longer. I want you to be overwhelmed by your hunger for me. I want you to need to stop me mid-sentence to tell me how close you are to pouncing me. I want to make you wait until I finish my sentence before I grant you permission to do so.
I want to grab you by the back of your head then, pull you into me, bite down on that chapped bottom lip of yours, demand you return the attention.
I want to feel you submit to me, to my touch in the way that, deep down, I know you yearn to.
I want to challenge myself.
I want to initiate because it scares me. Despite it all, I fear your rejection. And I don’t want to be beholden that fear any longer.
I want you to test my patience. I want the torture of delicate, concentrated touches with no promise of release.
I want you to force your techniques on me—the ones that differ from my own—to contort my pleasure into new, unexpected shapes. I want you to swat my hand away when I try to take over, insisting that you’re the one taking care of business right now.
I want you to pose challenges for me. I’m not sure what this looks like yet, but I look forward to whatever your diabolical mind comes up with.
I want to be challenged; I want to be empowered; I want to be softened.
And I want you to keep asking what I want until I figure all of this out.
I want to lose my goddamn mind.
I want wild, frenzied, hungry devouring. Claws and teeth and hair-pulling and hands on my throat with just the right amount of constriction. I want to find all the bruises in all the curious places for days after the fact.
I want to dig into you, peel back the layers, and nestle myself inside your skin.
I want to sit down to a proper dinner with you. After days, weeks of deliberate teasing and taunting through messages, images, snippets of recording, videos… whatever it takes for me to get so turned on, I question my sanity. Once we’re there, I want to prolong and amplify the denial just a little more.
And then I want a torturous, drawn-out session with a lot of light strokes and increasingly focused fingers and strategic toy use, where you bring me to the brink but don’t quite let me have it, forcing me to teeter there on the edge of infinity, even when I tell you to stop—especially when I tell you to stop—until I fall apart completely, until the words melt into lunacy tears.
I want us to level up by diving deeper than we’ve ever gone before.
Today, I want all of it with you.
But more than that, I want it for me.
Prompt #360: Home Alone