It feels white

Today I'll see you again ... And Its not that my soul feels proud about that fact. My mind tells me: "no", but my body wants to be filled, saciated, disturbed. 
Who does not end up becoming the slave of their sensations and desires?
Everytime you touch my body, everytime you arrive at it, I can find your eyes looking at it as I were a muse. The sensations are activated and my body shudders when the caresses bloom over my skin. Every touch is a sudden explosion that gives genesis to a bunch of shooting stars.
The moment starts when I found myself asking: How can such this banal act give rise to smooth and pure sensations? You are passion, you are desire, you are the artist. I have given you the power, of what ever you want to. That's why I have to clear my body before your inked hands want to write over it. 
I've been thinking that you'll want to pour your nectar over me, and like a good girl I've anxiously cleaned every space (thinking that you might want to put it dirty, filthy, stain it, or maybe just inked it). 
My body is damp, expectant, trembling, restless ... Amateur! The words have been written without you moving a single finger. My satisfaction comes with your restlessness sight, the figure that your tongue traces through my lips, the cry of my accumulated desire, the motivation from my lower fantasies and yearnings, the warmth of my sex, desirous of being penetrated.
Your fleeting glance pierces softly and discovers the smooth horizon of my nakedness. I would also like to write over your empty body. Our encounter gives rise to the victory resulted from a conflagration loss. The war is mine and I have been defeated, as a faithful slave I have come to give myself in wounded body: The Victory is yours, I am easy prey of your instincts.

At this moment your offenses are my pride, I am grateful to be inked by your inspiration, word after word the agitation is sharpened and I am grateful to be empty so I could be filled. I shudder with your shouts, you give me sighs with your narrative talent, you fix the syntax of my faltering moans and stunt with poetry with my trembling cravings, you decorate the most carnal poetry. 
Your dirty hands finish filling me, your audacity has ended up over my empty skin, it's time to end with a dramatic final. Thus, your cravings spill over me pushing me to feel wild pulsations. Our bodies have been inked. It's time to draw the end on this tainted body, craving to feel white again ...

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