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I loved a woman of my age. Young, beautiful and sensitive. Who attracted me in and out, lurking through my page.
I loved a woman of my age.
Young, beautiful and sensitive.
Who attracted me in and out, lurking through my page.
I caught her vision, her voice so musical.
Telling me to write more love
And I could describe her in paragraphs, forgetting all the rage.
I didn’t know the motive of her chase,
Day and night I fell hard. Hard in romance.
I came out as a lover in which I was caressed.
The blemish of her face was kissed by my lips.
Her dorsum so curvaceous, my fingers slipped along the sweat.
We were entirely women burning with the same desires.
The breasts served me a pillow, tits so mushy, embarrassed with my touch.
I was poked with her decorated nails.
We moaned with tears of years.
There was so much of truth in our carnal pleasure. She loved me exactly that my romance talked about.
Her nails reached my sensitivity, groaning to stop.
But that didn’t stop. I could hear her heartbeat as clear as mine.
Our mutual eyes locked the physical bond.
And I pushed her hand inside me, causing me to grab her tight.
My vagina was hers. And she painted me white.
I drew circles on her back, creating sensations.
And she pressed my breasts, maybe telling me to touch her vulva.
But I teased her warm labium, already running wild and wet.
That voice was more musical than I ever thought. The notes were perfectly high and erotic.
My fingers played with the fleshy clitoris as I tasted the skin of her neck.
I spoke her beautiful words in the ear. Every time she cries for more and more love
The hunger in our body was extremely rich.
I dropped myself down to nudge into her world, a world of us. The world with no curtains. We existed in the nakedness.
All I could feel was my head held closer at the time of releasing the excitement.
I could feel her loud vagina telling me to clear the mess.
And what in life, a beautiful mess to happen.
I loved a woman of my age,
But I met her only in my poetries.
Image Source: Still from the Film Badhaai Do via Canva Pro
Author | Demisexual | Writer | Storyteller | Literature | Wooed read more...
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A feminist man sometimes seems like an oxymoron, but maybe there are some out there. How is it to be married to a feminist man?
How is it to be married to a feminist man?
This is a working list. Will keep adding to it.
Do you also have a feminist man at home? And if yes, what is it to be married to him? Do share.
Trust, understanding, and companionship thrived between us as we grew older while the initial intensity felt more stable and comforting kind of love
It was almost midnight. I was dead tired and fatigued.
I was feeling drained out and fatigued. My head was hurting badly. Sleep seemed far from eyes. I was tossing and turning in the bed I noticed his eyes were gaping at me, perhaps he wasn’t getting sleep either. Our eyes locked and soon I felt drawn toward his mysterious and irresistible charm.
With parted lips, he looked up through lashes. His side glancing at me stole my heart.
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