The Dance of One

24 hours later. On the couch where his eyes could not meet mine. Where his voice was lost. The couch I walked away from . . 

I thought I would never look back.

A conversation, a teaching of my needs and here we are again. The break up, deleted.

You open champagne. A gift you have saved forever. And you gift me with the knowledge that you want to share it now. Your eyes tell me your emotions are deep. We sit. We talk. Like old times. Hours pass. 2am approaches and we start kissing.

I touched you? Or you touched me? I don’t remember.

In seconds, you enter. Foreplay not on the menu. My body was ready, wet with missing you. My lips part. That gasp of disbelief of how you feel inside me. That disbelief that never leaves. As if I have never felt this feeling, felt this good.

I am sitting on the couch and you are standing, entering me. You flip us around. I straddle you. My body moving selfishly, how she wants—but, it is also the rhythm, the movement, your cock desires. Your eyes. My body, in one continuous orgasm. You lie on the couch and we continue. Perfectly in sync, so much so, it is almost a blur.

Somehow we move, effortlessly, across the room. You sit on a chair. I, on top. You never leave from inside me—how, I don’t know. The pleasure, the choreography is overwhelming.

You stand up and are holding me. My 5’11” body feels weightless. And you, a professional jumper, are so much shorter. I feel acrobatic. Upside down in the air, somehow. Intense . . . I scream. Moan, even louder, if possible. Poor neighbors.

We are moving. I am stepping backwards. Choreographed. As if my legs are a part of yours. How? We enter the bedroom freezer. You turn on the light and look at me.

And throw me on the bed. The mirror. We continue. The emotions–our connection is intolerable.

We are one. We come. Together. It lasts forever.

Minutes pass. Our bodies still going.

 There are no words. 

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