Sometimes, Lennon and McCartney are the only ones who get it

The video clip that accompanies this post is only half right. The boy who’s driving me mad — well, one of the boys, the one tagged as Canadian Bacon — is indeed going away. Differences between art and life: he does care, and he will be back in three weeks.

But you know. I’ll miss him. Particularly as i sail the world from my sofa, leg aloft, spirits flagging.

Still, just listening to the Beatles is enough to give anyone a boost. And if he had to be away, better that he goes when i’m grounded. Well, sofa’d. 😀

Such a sweetheart is this boy. Message from him last night:

I still have 11 days of things to do before I get on the plane in about 40 hours. One of those things would be to power fuck you for two hours straight and then gently caress your sweat-soaked, orgasm-ized body as the last drops of cum ooze out of me…

You can see why I’ll miss him, can’t you? 🙂

______________________________

General update: Mojo slowly returning. Don’t lose faith in me. And thank you for the lovely messages. ❤

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Intensity and release

closeness-keeps-the-fire-burningDown the length of my body, my eyes meet his. A lazy, half-curled smile on his lips as he contemplates his next move. A hand slithers beneath me, and tugs me down further towards him, swivelling me until our bodies cross, and gently lifting me by the neck to him.

Way to make me anticipate a kiss, cheri.

He plants feathery kisses all over my body, in a way which reminds me of schoolboy crushes, from before I moved beyond the realms of virginity, from before I knew what else was out there… from when this was the ultimate in what turned my knees to jelly. Surprisingly, with him at least, it still does.

I return the favour by nibbling on his shoulder, and am rewarded with an affectionate growl of arousal. He kisses my mouth again, buries his head in the space between my chin and my breasts, and sighs loud and long.

It’s the most vocal communication we have for a while, save my own sighs, and his cries and grunts, and is the prelude to some of the most incredible and passionate physical intimacy I’ve ever experienced. We’re entwined in various permutations for literally hours, and I peak over and over and over again*, each time wondering whether I have it in me to achieve yet another orgasm. (I do.)

When he — finally — allows himself to climax, I am sat astride him; my skin glows in the dimmed light, my breath shallow and gasping, his no less so. He mutters something inaudible in French, but I catch the words “J’aime” and “ta chatte” and have a good idea of what it was that he said. Gently, I extricate myself and softly tumble down next to him, as he gathers me close. He strokes my skin, and I his.

We exhale… and smile.

* I lost count at eleven. Swear to dog.