He stole it.
His photographer’s eye watching my face for every shade while his musician fingers played sonatas under the privacy of the table. Every time I got close he pulled back
“No. It belongs to me now.”
And paused his manipulations until I was almost back to thinking in coherent sentences.
He milked my mind creating a juxtaposition of analyzing the current capitalistic structures and whether you could define success in socialism and what he was squirreling away breath by stroke to his own private island of our combined pleasure.
He knew I was too much in love with our intellect to back down, and so he continued to push my button, slowly and lazily.
He abruptly stopped.
Fuck him he stole all of it. Every single vibration because he knew the outside of my lips were more sensitive than my clit.
Never pausing in our discussion, he used my own wetness against me as he resumed his penetration with now two fingers playing Coltrane improvisations underneath my skirt since I was following his directions to allow him full open access with no restrictions.
No release for me except a verbal spewing of words all over his face as a substitute for what he wouldn’t let me have.
Fuck. Those fingers.
Drinks. Dinner. I lost track of how many time he stole my prize before we paid the check.
I was a mess and could only cut my eyes towards him as he drove. Shit, even the ease of how he was driving the car was turning me on, steering around traffic so effortlessly. Leather and the scent of so many starts and stops to my orgasms tickled my brain, while at red lights he toyed with my nipples making me hold my hands above my head. He loved me like this. Open and full display ready to cum just for him because of him. And he loved it even more because he ordered me to not touch him until he commanded it, knowing that I could easily cum just giving him a massage. He was a master at theft. Easily sliding and working his tongue while my moans substituted as a weak alarm system.
“Pleasssse” I muttered as we crossed the threshold and I formed one of my favorite figures – me on my knees, holding my breasts, mouth open waiting for his command.
Silence was my reply as he refused to touch me knowing I was at the edge and any touch would send me over. A good thief knows when to leave his property instead of taking it, so left me – waiting.
“Strip” came the command as he motioned me to our bedroom. I decided to crawl just because turnabout is fair play in foreplay. I locked eyes with him as the arch of my ass wiggled slowly across the floor knowing I was going to pay later for my act of rebellion since he loved to watch.
By the time I made it to the bed, he was as naked as I was, straining for control.
“On your back” came the next ragged whisper as he traced my lips with his tongue forcing me to keep my eyes open and watch him.
He spread my knees and I was so wet, I could almost see the gleam of my pussy in his eyes.
He entered me in one stroke and by the second, whatever I thought was an orgasm, was nothing compared to how I was now floating outside of myself witnessing this moment. I felt his eyes knowing he claimed everything I had while we were trapped inside of each other. He took every single vibration of my orgasm. He robbed every single shake and scream. As he continued to push my legs down while moving in so deep his balls tickled my ass, I never stopped cumming. I couldn’t have if I tried.
He came just before the strength of my own orgasm made me lose my place in the time-space continium. I woke with his face in my neck, my legs around his, and him holding my hand.
But dammit, I had given him permission. Permission to not ask for permission. Permission to take what I offered up on my knees, on my back, on my side, on top, anytime and anywhere.
Permission to make me open, naked, and trusting.
Permission to see inside my thoughts I keep buried in late nights between myself, God and my pen.
So did that make him a thief?
Or just my heart, taken, protected and buried in a space inside of him?