Your Name on My Tongue

I start slow—
legs parted, breath shallow,
thinking of your mouth,
how it’d claim me
with greedy devotion.

My fingers slip lower,
slick with need,
circling like you’d tease me—
hovering just enough
to make me beg in silence.

I bite my lip,
but your name
is already rising
like a storm
in my throat.

I imagine your hands—
firm, demanding,
pressing me open
until I drip with your name.
I ache,
I crave,
I tremble.

Two fingers now—
thrusting, curling—
as I ride the rhythm
you’ve branded in my bones.
My back arches,
hips desperate,
pulse pounding in my throat
and between my thighs.

I shove my hand over my mouth
because the scream is coming,
your name
a sacred curse
I’m not supposed to cry out.

But the pleasure crashes—
white-hot,
relentless,
every nerve a live wire
singing only for you.

I shake,
I come,
silenced by my own palm,
tears slipping down
as the aftershocks
drag me under.

All of me—
ruined and wrecked
by a fantasy
that feels more real
than any hands
but yours.