Lust varies depending on the time of day. In the evening, when you are in shape, it walks in light waves from the back of your head to your heels, slightly catching your breath. In the evening you find the best words, occasions, poses. Evening passion is multifaceted: spiritual insights freely turn into bouts of lust and vice versa, becoming indistinguishable. The world spins on the tips of the eyelashes and foams with champagne bubbles, all situations are reversible, any entrance is an exit. In the morning, everything is different.
Deep sleep is like falling into a fascinating abyss, from which it is impossible to get out the same, just as it is impossible to take with you everything that you have acquired there. Therefore, having risen on a crumpled pillow, you find only a few scanty thoughts in your head - and even then they seem redundant to you. If you let them in, they will fill you completely, frightening with dullness and totality. Pinned to the floor by them, you struggle to start the day, but exhausted, you collapse back into bed. It's great if at this moment she is lying next to me.
Having studied my habits better than others, she does not require revelations or confessions from me. She knows: in the first moments of the morning I am a vegetable, a seal thrown ashore, a child open to any suggestion. Since I belong to her, and this status requires daily confirmation, she fills me with herself, writes the script for my day, in which she is assigned the main role.
Her touches make up my whole universe at these moments, physical sensations become an end in itself, one star pulsates in the blurred sky of closed eyes - more, more, more.
At first, her fingers draw melancholic circles along the back, lifting up the hairs that seem to have sprouted to the very depths of the body and these depths are swaying. Then the pressure intensifies, the pattern of the dance becomes more abrupt, the waltz is replaced by a measured solid minuet, and then by a hysterical jig. The eternally tense legs are turned off, oh God, the chained neck hangs like a whip - the product is ready for more delicate processing.
The hardened back and thighs are nothing compared to the chest and stomach open to all the morning winds. At the beginning, the same light figure eights - only now with long streams of hair - replaced by snake bites on the nipples and navel. Each such attack turns outward, leads to the verge of loss of consciousness, already pushed into the far reaches of my suddenly blown away, tamed by her cosmos.
Then, as if by chance, the fingers run over the head of the penis and clenched in a warm fist around the scrotum. This imperious gesture is a new starting point for today's affection. In the hands of an absolute monarch, the power and the scepter, even if her kingdom is a helpless heap of sleepy male flesh.
The disparate waves raging inside are organized in time with her lulling, possessive movements. The dull pain in your head takes on a new, unexpectedly pleasant dimension - you don't have to think about anything, everything will be done for you. A ritual as ancient as the world is being performed - with a theme, development and climax.
Finally, the invigorated stalk wraps around a ring of fat, like ripe strawberries, lips. The queen herself seems to be losing her temper: the strands, like a broom, are sweeping over her bare stomach, from under them come the uterine sounds of animal pleasure.
The sky under the closed eyelids shrinks to a point, an electric discharge runs down and falls through the seeds into the dark depths of her body already. Inside, a sparkling, transcendental emptiness is spreading. She raises her flushed face, bubbles of saliva and semen on the edges of her lips, a cunning, contented squint in her eyes: "Good morning, dear! It's time to get up."