A throttle to slow down and reverse, backing out of dead ends and alleyways, one way streets and cul-de-sacs. Typo? Negative. This sentence had the subject it needed, which is this sentence. Another sentence, the longest one yet, was soon to come to an end.
Sometimes love takes a while. A lifetime, or five minutes. Sometimes both. We had a false start, where our broken pieces stuck each other. We had to adjust and twist and fix ourselves a little bit, studying us to see how they could fit.
You study my depths so you can dive in them, exploring my darkest secrets. You touch my insides fearlessly, as your skin touches mine. Your eyes light up and I feel your power on my skin. The autumn leaves blow around us, cloaking us in shameless carnality. We are soaking wet, having splashed through that fucking water on our way to forever.
I tiptoe across your skin, leaving nothing but blue electric prints on your thighs and brilliant red marks crackling on your backside. I glide across your curves, taking the tight turns recklessly and risking crashing into you with abandon. Your lips are an open invitation to pleasure, which I willingly accept. My gift to you is sensuously thoughtful, the kind that keeps on giving. I keep on giving it to you, and you accept it eagerly and quickly. You bare your throat to me, asking me to leave a mark. You’ve left an impression on my everything.
We are the scholars teaching each other about life and love, and we always finish our lessons with high marks. Your course for me is hard, but I’m up to the task. I make you stay after, keeping you for private lessons. We realize the lessons we’ve already learned, and eagerly await new experiences. We profess our undying love, and learn each other’s bodies instead.