This is the first letter I wrote to her. I wish I could say the feelings I describe in it are merely embers now, but re-reading it brought the same bright, familiar ache it always does, and this July, I'll watch the night sky as I always do. Remembering how she watched me; the ways she touched me with her gaze and the fireworks she stirred with her touch. And wishing she were here to light me again.
*
The brilliance of a well-executed fireworks display is found not in their colours alone, but in their variety. Sudden, striking flashes contrast with slower-burning warmer glows, and a tightly-focused flare of light can blossom into dozens of scattering, swirling streaks. Kamuros, spiders, time rain: All these effects combine to create a rich and powerful overall impression on the audience, and leave them paradoxically deeply satisfied yet craving more.
I crave more of your fire, Goddess. How could I not? You lit the fireworks in me last night, even from the first words you murmured, and still the flames are shimmering, all through me. Their sparkles may be dimmer than the peak of the night, but the memories they spark are as bright as any Independence Day display. My balls, which throbbed as rhythmically as a Catherine wheel when you grasped them tightly, and which still echo with the memory of your touch. My shaft, just below the ridge of my cock head, aching in pulses from the pinpricks of your teeth when they trapped me. You used the hint of pain as a warning, ensuring I'd allow your tongue to continue its tantalizing of my tip.
As though I'd have wanted to move away! You'd been teasing me throughout the day, with murmured hints and threats and veiled promises. And more than once you'd teased my taste buds too, your hand in my hair, guiding me to my knees to worship at your entrance. Even now my lips seem to shimmer at the mere memory, the echo of your flavour enough to make me salivate once again. My mouth needs you as much as the rest of my body hungers for you.
And how it hungers: my neck, where your bites linger as throbs, glowing with each pulse of my jugular. My nipples, the ache there a duller but more constant presence, from the clamps you had on me. Flickers of fire along my back, wandering like sparkler trails, following the lines your nails traced. All the way down to where I am embarrassingly aware of the unfamiliar, inner aches you've left me. When my tight hole clenches I feel the absence of your toy. I cried out when you entered me, but I long for you to be there again now. Hand gripping the back of my head, pinning it down, other hand on my hip to hold me in place as you took me.
