I Sing For Your Touch

My skin tingles as your hands caress my nipples. You gently nip with your lips, then with your teeth, sending a thrill down my torso. I think of that first time, in Kansas City, when you tied me down and tormented me with that feather, that feather that sits framed on my desk.

You brought me to the edge but refused to let me peak. Over and over again, that feather tickled me; my nipples, my lips, my ears, then my vulva, and finally, oh, so briefly, my clitoris. Repeatedly, until I begged and pleaded with you to allow me some relief. Then you mounted me and brought us together, passionately, over that peak.

I screamed. I screamed and screamed. But you denied that it was a scream. I'd never before been a screamer, but what you had pulled out of me was primal.

But you said, "No, that's not a scream. That was a note, a beautiful note a diva would be proud of."

Your fingers enter me, looking for that spot, that patch of roughness that will elicit a note, a song of love from me. Love, do you remember that night in Alice Springs, when you locked the drovers out of the bathroom and took me, leaning me over the sinks while they pounded on the door and demanded in. You ploughed me a furrow that raised a note, loud and long. If that bar's glassware had been crystal, you insisted, it would have shattered.

As I came down from that performance, I suddenly realized that all was quiet. No pounding on the door, no chatter in the bar, not even the clink of glassware. Silence. Eerie silence...

Then the place erupted in applause, hands clapping and tables pounded. When you opened the door, I tried to hurry out of the bar, head down, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes. But you insisted on taking your bows and having me join you. We didn't leave the bar for an hour, as everyone bought us a round. The barman had to drive us to your friend's station -- I was so drunk the cabbie refused to let me in his car.

As your lips travel down my torso, and begin to make love to my vagina, I think of that hot, summer night in Ibiza, when we slept out on the balcony. You licked the sweat from my body, teasing me. You had me naked and horny on that balcony, exposed to the view from the other balconies, in our hotel and that one across the street. You told me not to worry; you whispered that if we were quiet, no one would see us. Of course, you didn't intend to take me silently. Steadily, relentlessly, you teased and tickled, while I tried to suppress my vocal appreciation. In the end, it was hopeless. You didn't get a single note out of me.

You got a fucking aria. I sang. I couldn't help it. You made me cum, and cum again. Orgasm on top of orgasm. I still believed that I was just a screamer, until the 'bravo's' began being shouted out from the observing balconies. Of course, we can't go back to that hotel. Turned out, even in Ibiza, hotels frowned on their guests being disturbed by loud noises at 3 AM.

I ask you to take me over to the window and fuck me against it, exposing my body to view, like you loved to do. Remember Paris? When you took me to that brothel and had Madam de Bombelles parade me around the house in just the sexy bra and panties you'd purchased special for me that day, along with stockings, garters, and hooker heels. The men began asking Madam for me, then started bidding against each other, until Madam said they were offering double the going rate. She asked if I was interested. I demurred, saying that it was up to you. The highest bidder demanded my company, but Madam shushed him, promising only, "Demain, peut-etre."

But you have never shared me with another man, and you never well. But that night you played the impresario. You pulled an operatic performance out of me, by having Madam de Bombelles service my vagina while you slammed into her doggie style. That woman's tongue was magical, and I couldn't stop singing.

The next morning, waking up to chocolate and croissants in Madam's bed, she told us that the bidding for me had tripled after my performance was heard, heard throughout the house. I blushed when she said if I accepted, I would set a new record, if not for Paris, at least for her house.

I now look out at the lights of the city as I cum. I don't sing. Now, I never sing. I look out at the lights of the city, knowning that I can only orgasm with my memories of you. But my climaxes now are just shadows of those you commanded.

I begin to cry. You left me. YOU LEFT ME, DAMN YOU!

You had to go to Raoul's bachelor party. You had to stay for another toast, another drink, but insisted on driving home. But you left me. Alone.

I know these hands are not yours. I know these lips are not yours. And I know this penis doesn't hold the magic that your's did. Yet night after night, I go looking, longing to find you again.

Longing to sing again. But the opera is over.

The lady, fat with your penis in her, had sung and now the opera is over.

As is my life. Over.

Without you.