Will he fuck you tonight? Run his hands down your side and grasp the soft skin of your hips with his sick, sweaty fingers of red-bleeding meat. Will the finger that softly touches the end of your nose when your mind is far off in the realm of thought join the others as they wrap around his cold, hard dick? Will he touch you gently or will he use your body as relief while he pictures the rounded breasts and thin waists of the young girls in magazines? Does he love you, does he make you feel beautiful when he hoists his weight on you? Does he explore your body lovingly before he penetrates the delicate skin between your soft, warm thighs or does he hardly look at you, even in the dark, before for he forces himself in, breathing hard and sick and heavy? Do you love the way it feels when he occupies the most sacred crevice of you, or do you wait and wish for it to be over soon, letting the sensations pass over you, lacking the critical component of passion? Do you love him? Does he touch you now or does he no longer touch you at all, resorting long ago to pleasuring himself in front of glowing blue screens when he has the most beautiful of all jewels sitting in a place of his reach? Has he taken you for granted, love, letting your shine dull without proper care and your worth diminish under his eye of scrutiny? I hope when he fucks you he fucks you with love. I hope that when your sweat burns each others bodies that it is a passion you feel, not a wave of sensual desire without a hint of emotion.
(Source: verdureofmylove, via wolfpaarty)
