BUILDER'S BLOCK
by Cheryl A Townsend
He is taller than most, shorter than some, with a body quite nicely in the middle. No excess muscle. No excess fat. Amaretto eyes and Coca-Cola hair that spills down his neck in easy curls, touched with grey. A 2-shave-a-day face, tanned with summer construction. His employment t-shirt is escaping his soiled and well-worn jeans. My eyes fix on the erased denim and thighs I know I can endure. His hands are big and well used. I see no commitment to deter. Can you visualize this? Can you see him as I do? Then imagine him sneaking you into his fantasies as you keep yourself just near enough away. Imagine his obvious desire, touching you with his glances. A boyish smile when your eyes catch his. Can you hear the words neither one of you need to say? He puts down his hammer and walks towards you. You put down your reservations and anticipate. He is breathing into your eyes. You can feel the lust of his intention. A hand just soft enough lifts your face and your mouths crash. You feel unconscious. Do I need to break to the waves? Are you ready to go on? His hands vacuum you into his intimacy. You can taste the day he has had as you vampire his first offering. His hands are like an iron on your back, pressing you with such heat, and you feel like soup. You are hanging across an abyss, griping his hair, his neck. His hands feel the sigh of your flesh. Your heart begins to race. You can feel the strength exude through the cotton on his back. You need to drop those barriers. You kiss the trail of his shirt as you lift it from his chest. He is salty and you love it. He drops to his knees and unbuttons your blouse. His shaking hands make you purr. His tongue penetrates your naval and his hand feels your ribs. From the top of your cup, he rips off your bra, and you don't mind it. You cleave him to your breasts. He suckles with a grizzly hunger. Your fingers are lost in baby curls. You want it all. You want it now. You tell him. You both trade zippers, then shove your own away. He smells your morning shower and holds your retreat. Your flesh rains and you puddle to your knees. His need is now against you. You quickly invite satiety. You gasp him in to you. You feel this in your blood. You create an engine. He is a piston, firing. This heat is combustive. This feeling is implosive. You can not hear the noises you are making. You are biting his shoulder. He is bruising your pelvis. His neck is stretched as you open your eyes just long enough to see his face as he meets God. And then you cum.
