Conflagration

I’m burning in ways I didn’t expect with him. Find myself wanting to put my mouth on his length, bite a pattern around his hips, mold my hands to the shape of his thighs, take pleasure from his pleasure—I want to make him feel good. That makes me feel good too. How unexpected. My fantasies have never featured me as the aggressor, or the one who draws out the shudders from the other person’s lips, but the script’s flipped, and what used to be a passive sequence has turned active. No longer done to, but doing. I like it.

I wonder what’s caused the change, but I think I’ve always known. The role switch was already happening when I was with him on Tuesday, spread-eagle on his sheets while he licked an uneven line down my stomach. I wanted to return the favor. Again, the urge returned on Sunday night as soon as he slid my underwear off and pulled my hips towards him, towards his waiting mouth, because I looked right into his face as he did so, and the hunger in his expression—pupils black and blown—elicited a gasp I sucked in at the last second.

That kind of naked longing, seldom experienced and thus so memorable: how humbling, how infectious—and all of that directed at me. I want to make him feel the same way. To have his hips buck at my attentions. To clench tight around him, my nails scoring trails down his back, and swallow every moan he can’t hold in. To see an identical expression on my face staring back, dark-eyed and red-lipped, my voice thick with heat and intent. To listen to his body come apart in my hands as he has done to me. I want to undo him.