My Lips

Image by Gabriel Doti from Pixabay

I touch my lips and think about all of the times I kissed you. Your lips trapped between my teeth and my tongue brushing yours. I think about how much softer your pussy was than my lips were and how you tasted and smelled. I remember sucking your nipple between them and using my teeth to make your gasp and moan.

My favorite memory is that of your weight on my face, my lips hungrily sucking at your wet flesh. Your juices fill my mouth. Your ankles brush my ears. I grab your thighs and pull you down harder, unafraid of your weight on me. If I am to die, let it be because you drown me, smothered me.

Our first date, I made my lips the color of sweet cherries. I wore a simple black dress. We never made it to the restaurant. You kissed me while we were in your car. Our two shades of lipstick as close as your hand was to my drenched cunt. By the time we sated our hunger, my lips were puffy and there was more color on my teeth than my skin.

I remember your tears on my lips. Kissing your cheeks as you cried when your family threw you out. You came to me and we cried and drank beer and made love. You moved in and we never looked back. We spent hours kissing on our threadbare couch, my full lips on your thinner, darker set. You taught me how to really kiss. What it meant to tease and tempt and taste. How to use my tongue, my whole mouth. When to be gentle and when to attack and devour.

I remember our chaste kiss when we peeled back our veils and embraced for our small audience of friends and family – even yours present and weeping for our joy. Then, later, my lips kissing you in places and ways I’ve never kissed anyone else. Your hands gripped our headboard as I made you come again and again.

I will kiss you with my lips, love you with them, worship you until the skin around my lips is wrinkled and white hairs have sprouted from my chin like my Nana’s.


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