H is for Heartbeat

by Pumpkin

The constant note. The thread of my life. The pulse of our love. It drums in my head -an unending tattoo, pounding at me, demanding that I follow its rhythm. I do. I do. I do.

I roll you under me and take your mouth, sealing our contract with yet another kiss. You taste like apples and it makes me moan, the noise swallowed by your sweet, supple mouth.

The cadence quickens, whispering speed.

Despite the taste of you, I don't linger. There is too much haste in the beat, too much need, driving us both and foreplay would only be a distraction.

My hands roam your body restlessly and finally they settle where they want to be. One hand is pulling, the other pushing. Pull on your shaft, press into your opening. Back and forth. Following the insistent pulsing.

The demanding rhythm speeds, speeds. It never falters, never releases me from its thrall.

I flip you. Turn your body and press into you. Into you deeply and deeper. And still deeper, until I can feel the pulse of your blood around me and in me. A part of me. Driving me. In and out. Push and pull. The rhythm. The beat. The pulse.

I lay my head on your back, my ear pressed tight to your skin. Over your heart. Hearing it thump in your chest. Hearing the rhythm that drives my days; my nights; my hours; my seconds; this second.

This second as I come, my seed flowing from my body to yours. A benediction, a prayer, a pulsing flow into you.

We collapse, my cheek still pressed to your back. My ear still against your heart. Always listening to your heart. And I hear it. I feel it. Your heartbeat. Your heart beat. The beat. Beat. Of my love. My love. Love.

End.

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