Pencil sketch of a nude woman's torso and legs, cuddled against her nude male lover's belly and legs. His arm is on her bent knees.

There is a beauty in the simplicity of loving him for as long as I have.  I delight in the knowledge that even my polyamorous nature is unchallenged within the exclusivity of our physical love, which after 20 years has not yet begun to leave me wanting.  It matured like grapes on the vine, ripening the fruits I bear between with his sunlit smile, and now I can reach into his colors and tap into a magical space he holds court within as easily as reaching up the cabinet for a teacup.  Teacups are, after all, always within my reach.  And so is Jay.

I knew he had a headache, but moreover, I could feel the weight of his own anxieties pressing him down into the couch.  I wanted to give him some respite, so I collected my favorite bottles and jars from my beauty cabinet and laid a towel across my crossed legs, inviting him to lie in my lap.  He lay with his eyes closed, and I swept back his hair to kiss his upturned brow.   I ran my hands over his face, seeking out tiny spots of tension like grains of rice in the muscles of his jaw.  Each bottle was filled with purpose, and I focused on a different aspect of his sensory awareness with each application.

I swept my fingertips through the Miscal water and let the coolness of the tincture ease his resting eyes.  He moaned, the coolness of the cleansing water and the gentle brushing of my fingers sweeping broad across the angles of his cheeks.  His breath deepened, and I kissed his eyelids as I reached for the cotton cloth to pat his skin dry before applying a toner.  It smelled like tea roses with undernotes of witch hazel.  I knew it would remind him of spring rainstorms and aching kisses, bathed in the high scent of the earth opening to receive the rain, a humid thirst echoed in our own hungry hands.  I felt him catch his breath.  I saw his subtle smile- the one he doesn't realize he's wearing when he remembers something that stirs in him.  I shifted my hands to change the experience, carving slow, gentle pathways across the muscular structure of his temples.  I took a breath and slipped into that space where we connect between the worlds, where my synesthesia tastes his laughter and sees the colors of his moods.   His clover green shifted, bubbling rusty, writhing worms infecting his spirit.  I could see his own self-loathing eroding his confidence, and leaned into his light.  His face softened under my fingertips, and I breathed in the smell of him, knowing he was letting go.  I carefully tended to each piece of him that he let go of, never missing a single aspect of his unspoken need.  Listening to his body, I began the next tincture and began working my fingers across his throat in rhythms I usually reserved for his penis.  He moaned more earnestly, letting go of another weight, and twisting his body in pleasure.  I bent at the waist, kissing his open mouth and tasting his need fire electric across his tongue.  He moaned into me, a trick that always leaves me undone, and I lost my fingers in his hair as I pulled him up into my kiss, and lost control.  I could feel the rust spots in his color racing around, and my last deliberately thought was that these were a part of the man I loved more intimately than any other, so I would offer my orgasms as sacrifice to each, tiny idols to my consort, and we are gods reborn.  I swung my body over his to straddle him low and taste his desire clinging excited beads
Diamonds shining on his chest
prickling sensory and ragged breath
the flavors of anticipation, sweet and high

I ran my hands across every inch of him I could reach, arching across his chest.  My mouth, a frenzied dance, enveloping each rusted red fleck I could catch on my fingertips into my mouth.  I wanted to kiss every single one, with the same intensity I feel for all the rest of him. I poured myself into each hitch I felt, melting it in the furnace of my increasing lust.  His cock swelled against my belly as I kissed my way back down his shoulders and chest, knowing I'd be unable to hold back this tide any longer.  I pulled him into my mouth and enveloped the head of his penis with my tongue.  It's a delightful, subtle trick, a fluttering rise and fall to tease the underside of his penis, which always pushes a bloom of excitement to the head of his cock.  I delight in the way it fills my mouth as he swells, and I know if I can stay connected to the most subtle languages his body whispers throughout, I will heighten his arousal from the physical to the mystical.  This is the only thing I want more than the pull of his own orgasm, and I run each subtle act through a rapid-fire sensory check.  My tongue can read the language of his heartbeat, knowing exactly when to quicken and massage the lilting join where the head of his cock wraps underside to meet at the top of his shaft.  My tongue alights between cradling this join and racing flat and firm against the rise of his tower.  My fingertips hear the call of his skin, nipping delicate at his hips, tracing across his nipples, eager and infinite patterns over belly and thigh and calf, racing up to grip his own hands locked in trist together as he cries out for me, and I pull the full of him into the back of my throat, swallowing my own moans along with the first salted promise of his release.

We are only just begun, and I know that so long as I can hold his aura gentle in my teeth, I can coax more of his oceans to crash
waves against my earth
axis of woman and world
between my thighs, bearing me forward and up, skyward like leaves reaching for the sun
I fold myself to keep my mouth eager upon him, unwilling to release his pleasures even as I raise up to bear this magic through to creation
before pulling him into me
the first of my own orgasms still quivering within me as I open
I feel the circle complete, my thighs hearing the song of his hips and instinctively shifting to ease his sensitivity
the freshly dewn grass so recently tried upon
made new in gentle and patient
though my own need rises carnal
a fire betraying heat through my pores
sweat and tea roses blooming across my breasts
Slow and sweet, until his hands hear the cry of my own ache, and he pulls me firm, rising up to thrust full into the river of my desire.

I am lost to the current, cool and crisp, rushing over my head and I let the springwell burst metallic and pure into my mouth, tasting the sound of our mutual orgasm through the lens of my synesthesia
and the purity of my need
as he fills me
The mushroom bloom of his earth
into the depths of my rivers
our elemental roles in this act reversed
and he is the fire
and I am the wind, facing the flames
clawing at one another as we combust
sparking galaxies into existence
blinding stars snapping synapse across the sky
and we are gods, harnessing the corners called within our own worship.

Handwritten, cursive signature says "pea flower tea" in lowercase letters. The flower is a small sketch of a bloom, instead of the word for "flower".
If an idea doesn't explode orgasms of bright sparks, cascading into and setting my own dark places alight, then I probably won't write about it.

Tell me something that moves you.

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