When Desire Becomes a Language

This isn't a love story. It's a confession soaked in raw, honest desire, and a little unfiltered. Some connections go beyond surface-level attraction. Some are written in a way that bodies remember each other long after the goodbye. This is about him, the one my body still aches for, even when my mind tries to forget, no matter how hard I try.

I won’t lie, you’ve been on my mind. And not in some soft, romantic way. No, it’s deeper than that. Rawer. Dirtier. The kind of thoughts I hesitate to admit out loud, but they live in me just the same, whispering through my body every night like a craving I can't shake.

It starts with a memory. Just a flash. A glance. The way your hands moved across my body was not gentle, but with purpose. With hunger. Like you weren’t just touching me… You were claiming me. Your mouth, your grip, your voice it all lingers like a bruise I never asked to fade.

I’ve tried to forget. Tried to move on. But my body? It remembers. It remembers how you filled me, how you pushed me past my limits and made me beg, not because you needed the power, but because you knew I wanted to surrender and be submissive to you. I still do. Even now, my body reacts to the thought of your thighs clenched, breath quickening, heat building between my legs like you never left.

I crave the way you looked at me like I was already yours. That quiet, commanding energy you carry so effortlessly. You don’t need to shout or force it, your dominance is in your stare, your presence, your silence. I felt it before you even touched me. It was magnetic. Intoxicating. You walked into the room, and suddenly, I forgot how to breathe. And when you did touch me…Everything else disappeared. I want that again.

I want to feel your hands gripping my thighs, your breath in my ear, your voice low and filthy, telling me exactly what you’re going to do and then doing it. I want to be beneath you, bound by tension, gasping under the weight of your need and mine colliding all at once. Let it be rough. Let it be slow. Let it be you, fully, unapologetically.

Tie me up in it. Tease me until I’m shaking. Make me beg for the release you know I need. Use my moans as permission. Drag it out. Take your time. Then take me like you’ve been starving for it.

I want to feel you lose control while you keep me under yours. I want your grip on my hips, your rhythm stealing the breath from my lungs, your name falling from my mouth over and over again like prayer and sin wrapped in one. But this isn’t just about sex. It’s about something bigger. Heavier.

It’s about a desire that never left, no matter how long we’ve been apart. It’s about how no one, and I mean no one, has ever made me feel the way you do. Wrecked. Consumed. Completely undone… and somehow safe. Like I could hand you every vulnerable part of me and trust you to ruin it beautifully.

I don’t just want you. I need you. Not for a moment, not for the fantasy but for the release. The escape. The fire. The kind of connection where nothing is off-limits and every filthy thought becomes a promise waiting to be fulfilled. This isn’t poetry. This is a confession. No pretending. No filter. Just me, raw, aching, ready. For you.