Ripe
I look up into sorrowful, chocolate-brown pools. My lover the stonemason, who's hands have carved a thousand tombstones and who looks as though he holds night time inside the silence of his eyes. His hands are scarred too, rough and lovely. They pass over my skin, annotating the geography of my body, my curves, crevices and fleshy mistakes. I writhe beneath him, feverish with lust. His cock thrusts in me, rigid, turgid. Dilated pupils shine from within a hard, closed face. Even whilst he pushes...
Love Stories