A game of you and me

We came out to play. In a tiny hotel room. In front of the mirror.

You wore a white shirt, clean crisp pure, but your reflection showed something else - a person wearing black: dark soft sensuous: the same face though: a similar person. In another dimension.

“I booked us a double room,” I whispered in your ear. “Two rooms in fact. The all-seeing and the all-feeling.”

The all-seeing
You saw him in the mirror, standing behind her. Wrapping a silk scarf over her eyes. And her eyes were gone.
He took his time. Took off her black shirt. His fingers walked the contour of her body, exploring a new geography, searching, looking for the pearly round buttons to unhook. One by one, from the top to the bottom - she was breathing - the cleavage of her fabulous breasts revealed. Condensation on the mirror.
He was breathing, down on her. His teeth nibbling her long pale neck. Biting. Licking. Tasting. You saw his tongue. And you touched yourself, while his fingers went walking, walking, walking south.
The black shirt fell. The black pants fell. A lacy red bra and a slinky red thong. And a blush on her face.

The all-feeling
It was hot breath on your body. And your face was hot.
You could see nothing but you could feel it. You could hear me breathing. Warm and moist on your skin. Along the curve of your shoulder.
A click. The clasp of your lacy red bra. Loosened, and slid down. Your nipples stiffened to the cold air.
Pinned to the wall. Hard wall, but cooling to your back. Arms raised above your head, tied round the wrists, and couldn’t be brought down anymore. You felt me: my mouth sucking on your tits. Smooth wet lips wrapped around. Tits. Sucking. Tongue. Touching. Flickering.
And your pussy purred for more.

The hotel room
Split between the duplicity of reality, exists the irreal.
You were on one bed, on fours, clad only in your white shirt, looking into the mirror, and I was doggy-fucking you from behind.
You were in the other room, pinned to the wall, tied and bindfolded, your legs split wide open in a V, and I was rubbing my tongue up your sweet clitoris.
Perhaps there could be more of me playing more of you at the same time. And you, enjoying the simultaneity of sexual pleasures in each and every universes, undulating, exploding, converging in this multiverse of your singular body.
And we would make verses. Long drawn out ones. Poetry in motion.

The games we play
When the children of lust touch, their instruments of love, strumming through their minds and bodies are the melodies electric.
The blue fire. The red passion.
The warmth and the hunger.
We seek love, free and imaginary and perverse, and reject true love's responsibility.
We seek life, the process of making life, but denying a chance for life to be made.
We play God. We play the horny slut. We play with candles, we play with ice-cubes, we play with ourselves. We worship, we experiment, we go to the edge: tying, spanking, whipping, choking, cutting, hurting, crying, laughing, moaning, stripping, raping, filming, masturbating, licking, creaming, ass-rimming, muff-diving, lily-chaining, wheel-barrowing; we play the games of the wildest fucking.

When the children of lust come out to play, we play the finest game of all.
So, do you want to play a game of you and me?





Or are you tired already?