Permission

We had chatted online
but meeting in person
electricity was in your eyes.
We talked of openness,
domination. I shared a writing,
your body involuntarily shuddered,
you laughed and revealed
your desire for surrender.
My pulse was faster, your eyes
were glimmering, unflinching,
the connection so clear,
and yet I hesitated to ask
what my desire was, for touch,
for body connection.

Now, as I write, I am glad I hesitated,
because, later, we text: you, I suppose,
in bed, me still in the hotel lobby, and
you ask for permission to pleasure yourself.
I instruct you on the proper form
for that request, and you comply,
your obedience delights me,
your brief surrender unfurls a whole landscape
that could, perhaps will be, between us in time.

My breath comes faster, my body
reacts, cock erect instantly.
My mind’s eye sees you naked,
because, of course, I had been,
even without meaning to,
mentally undressing you earlier
as you talk about your lingerie,
noticing your cleavage, your body’s outline.

I see in my imagination your face in ecstasy.
I am not sure which was more thrilling:
the idea that my thoughts
pushed you toward this need
or that you shared it with me
so openly and clearly. I cannot wait
for our next conversation.

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