Your hunger is my aphrodisiac

Whispers from the Oyster

In the hallway, you pull up my dress and down your trousers.

Your 7-days-a-week-in-the-gym bends me over and my sense of balance search for the stool as you enter me without any excuses.

“I’m too dry still”, I say - smiling at you through the mirror, mirror on the wall.

“Not for long”, you reply with my hips in your palms, thrusting into what you longed for for days and sometimes weeks.

I welcome the haste.
Your hunger is my aphrodisiac.
The rawness in your touch, the scent of the wild desire does indeed make me flood.

(The lust in your face is the most beautiful thing.)
Then my eyes shut so I can see the glory of your Soul inside of mine.

Hocus pocus philiocus.

Until you demand me to the floor and make me crawl home.