Megan often comes to me in dreams. She represents a profound familiarity that I’ve experienced little elsewhere. A comfortable old pair of shoes. You don’t consider their presence as such, you just slip them on. Not dismissed, but seldom considered as such. Not taken for granted - accepted as is. The way we accept a hip connecting to a pelvis, and so on. A perfect fit continued to be forged through wear and time. Familiar, easy, a place where, should one have their way, would forever be. Yet alas, I awake from the conjured feelings of long ago, and feel them fade. But they leave behind remnants protruding of a time gone, but to not be buried. A loss, but not in vain, as I didn’t know this feeling before meeting her. And now there’s more. Something to move back and forth with - to aspire to. And I do so with hope. It solicits hope. It is hope. To believe in the thing you aspire to as though it’s already here. There’s no question it exists. There’s no question it’s obtainable. And you allow that knowing to stroke you. That settled warm feeling of fire rising from your belly. It emanates from your heart. That for me is hope. And is what these dreams leave behind.
We didn’t get along, Megan and I. For nine excruciating years we didn’t get along. But we were passionate and familiar and comfortable. And so we stayed, despite the pain of needing to not be together. Because those are the things I aspire to be with someone. Only this time with love. But we stayed. And passion was our love.
We kissed as though we belonged to one another. Mouths interlocked. Each tongue exploring the other’s. This singular act elicited depravity within both of us. An equal exchange of rational behavior for pleasures, summoning an irrationality neither ever cared to resist - only dig our claws deeper into. An equal exchange of saliva. This roused me. I couldn’t get enough. We couldn’t get enough. And what made it hard, harder than even I thought was possible, was her arousal for the reverent exchange. And so we proceeded as so. My insatiability met with not only acceptance, but a desire for more. And not simply more of the same, as though continuing on cruise control. But if 55 MPH was good, then for her, more MPH would be better. So more meant deeper diving into insatiability. And more quenched the fire while stoking more desire.
My arousement extracting hers. Her receival reciprocating mine. Exchanging spit, I couldn’t believe that drooling into someone's mouth could turn them into the demon for desire she became. I couldn’t believe I was being met there. And not only met, but summoned. I often deem my lust for underbellied passions of life to be met only in my fantasies. But then I remember Megan.
I fed her, and she received it. Gobbling as though feeding her pending orgasm. Grabbing at my tongue. Pulling me into hers. Latching on. Quite frankly, I drooled and she drank. She suckled and I provided. Her hand to her vagina, she rubbed. Mine on myself. We fed from each other our longing to no longer be together, misdirected toward the quenching of our insatiable desires for pleasure. Our desire for more became our passion toward each other. Meeting only where we both knew how to feel good. Satiating the insatiable, we came. Her with her hands, me with her mouth. I fed and she lapped, treating my head as if it were still my tongue. I provided the familiarity of taste, of her pleasure. I edged myself, sometimes for hours. The first white glistening drop emerging proud from its tip was received like a diamond on an engagement ring. The look on her face as her eyes rolled back into her head. Her mouth opened, her cheeks softened and glazed over with blood red. Her tongue searching for proof of my enjoyment. My cock slowly released into her mouth, a little at a time, precum wiped onto her tongue like a rag she loved to use for cleanup. My edging, edged her. She couldn’t cum until I did. This wasn’t a rule or a game we played. There were no rules. Megan did not have the ability to cum until I came. My cum created her orgasm. And her orgasm I was after.
A trickle of spit added to her mouth. Replacing my tip with my tongue. Back and forth. My swollen head making a quick visit to the back of her throat. “Oh fuck.” Her large gravity defying bust heaving upwards in one snake-like full bodied writhing motion. Her two words said more than seductive measures ever could. Not more of the same, but more. And so our synchronicity became locked on each other's cum. And she suckled until my orgasm became hers.
I search for the familiarity of not only a mouth to cum in again - there’s been many - but the knowing in myself that despite the deepest and sometimes darkest desires I hold, the ones I sometimes feel only exist in my brain, also carry the ability to not only be met and received, but carried in someone else's desires as well. For every cock that needs to cum, a mouth awaits to receive it. And for every mouth that needs to feed, a cock waits to feed it. What we search for is also searching for us.
