la petite mort

You’ll be the death of me, and consider yourself lucky on how beautiful it will be.
The French call them la petite mort, heart stopping and earth shattering,
But I have never felt more alive then when your lips are on me,
Hips working back and forth and tongue stroking.
My body has never been so hot then when it’s under you.
Make me come alive under skill and technique,
Make me moan from the sensations only you can bring out,
And my body will melt and conform to yours,
I’m shaking, unable to feel anything other than your hands and the blissful light.
Pull my hair, slap my ass, and make me wish I never could escape this moment,
God, you remind me of those romance novels,
Pure and hot and forbidden, trapped within the confides on my bedroom,
Never able to see the light of day, maybe, maybe only when I’m so high,
So high on love that I don’t care who is watching, eager to fuck,
Getting off on the idea of being seen and heard in my most intimate moments.
Eager to please and ready to ride the length of you,
Seeking release in any way possible, I grind my hips and call out to you,
Whimpering and begging for your attention,
Craving that need for release, exploding with the stars I see behind my eyes.


21 thoughts on “la petite mort

  1. johnsmithiiimxiii says:

    The little death is burned into our brain, if we are lucky, with something that will haunt us for the rest of our lives. Then we just carry on with the ghosts looking for them the rest of our lives. Hopefully it isn’t too strange of a memory. I am enjoying your work!

    Liked by 1 person

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