Dear Beloved

I was in deep reflection today, thinking about making love to you. For some reason, thoughts, metaphors and analogies kept floating around in my head like lyrics to a song. I couldn’t stop thinking about how when you are deep inside me, and our bodies are moving together, we are like an instrument. A guitar perhaps; your fingers gently strum my taut and tense places which elicits a sounds that serenade the angels. Perhaps; I you are my harp, cradled gently between my legs as I play your body with artistic flair. More than an instrument, we are like magical music together. The staccato rhythm and pounding beat of our bodies making that hot sweaty passionate love is a concert to the senses. Your taste is the melody, your scent the rhyme, your moans of pleasure are a sensual harmony and the feel of you deep inside me keeps time. You are Marcus Miller laying the baseline for my Miles and miles of orgasmic bliss.

Damn, what have you done to me? I can’t stop thinking about how you make me feel. I can’t decide which sensation I like the most. Your tongue is magical; licking me, literally, from head to toe. Your arms envelope me and make me feel like I’ve found home. Your hands grab my hips and let me know you are steering this ship of pleasure and I’m a passenger on the Lust Boat.

What do you say to the idea that we not let all this passion I have for you go to waste? I have a taste for you and it’s not going to be satisfied by anything else. I want to hear you moan and tell me how good I make you feel. And if you are a good boy, there might be some other little surprises in store for you as well. I think I owe you a night of selfish pleasure for all the times you’ve given me such immense ecstasy. Can you imagine me bringing you to the very verge of orgasm and stopping until you are more desperate to be inside me than you’ve ever been? The offer is on the table. What say you, maestro?

Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK