Marionette

He brings life into my skin, turns into a rosy hue. Makes my eyes sparkle and dance, delighting in the vision of only him, the only thing I am capable of seeing.

He kisses me, and makes breath, gasping, wrenching, painful first inhalation in between being dominated and consumed by his tongue.

I want to move, to feel. I am anxious to explore. I am soft all the sudden, limbs can gradually slide down and hands can grasp his hardness. I wonder what he tastes like, and dip in for that first forbidden sample. My tongue delights on the plump texture, investigates the crevice under his head, mouth goes lower to the hard and mostly inflexible shaft, a slight saltiness touches the back of my throat. How far can I take him into me? Perhaps I can make him mine?

Aw, puppet, he mutters softly; as he pulls my hair, cords suddenly bound to his command. The deft fingers wound and tauten, pluck me up. I swear I wasn't trying to pull his strings, to take control. The threads tug, making me move to his demands, release suddenly but before I become lost in a tangle of indecision,  his large hands grab my upper arms and shift me up.

I am beneath him, but the sole focus of his attention. I am his creation, I am made to be his. He smiles, proud of his handiwork in me, and dips his mouth, paints my nipple. His mouth finds my heart, draws to his attention, nips until it is raw and only aware of his presence.

He opens me, explores my crevices with a sure knowledge, the path already known to him. It shocks me into the surreal, surely this has never happened before, this awakening.

I must be dreaming, a little puppet's reverie of being real and heat and life. Of surrounded by pounding blood and covered in nothing by sensitive flesh. How can I feel so animated in this moment?

My thighs are painted cream, a sharp contrast the blood red marked upon my chest.

He lowers himself into me, possessing me even more fully, stretching and testing my limits. He drives within me, claims my soul. Takes my words, my mewling little mumblings, feeble attempts at expressing the experience, and swallows them between his lips.

Why must he take everything that I am trying to do? I resist a little, wanting to slow down the onslaught of an approaching surge, but I wind and tighten anyhow; ineffective at his hegemony. I leave my drenched body in a scream that he allows, glide away and become lost in an worn out slumber.

Who knew consciousness was so consuming? So invigorating that it requires revitalization?

I hope he wakens me again soon...