Desire.
Parallel to the passions that rule our sun and temper our moon, desires are the stars permeating the midnight of our hearts. Twinkling and countless, our wants and yearnings flit about, cascading and dancing, sometimes burning with intensity but ofttimes barely a notable, dying ember. A desire can burn brightly one second, filling our vision and consuming our soul, but dim the next, only utter blackness where it once glimmered. However, new desires are born of our lust, and, soon, our ever-changing desires are the tapestry upon which our passions are hung.
Waxing and waning, some longings never cease to burn brightly, a beacon of our essence in the timeless void of the psyche. Of all our greatest yearnings, however brief, no greater craving has ever thundered more potently throughout our soul than the desire to be desired. While other wants come and go, that sole longing is as constant as the Northern Star. It may, at times, evaporate into near nothingness, no longer a part of consciousness, but it is always there, driving our behavior and influencing our minds. Even if thought lost, that which is missing may sometimes be rediscovered. Then, it burns with a scalding fire that erupts through our life, forever changing us.
Sated for the first time in ages, his desire for me, the need to reclaim me after his friends lusted over my physical, sexual allure, reverberated through my soul, consuming me with a passion that could not be quelled. My greeting card prose took on a definitive sultriness; my paintings became graphic, bordering on the pornographic, and our love life was even more torrid than the early days of our relationship when the excitement of somebody new enthralled.
As passion wanes and the stars of desire lose their luster, I refused to plummet once more into the despair of mundane routine. Our days were filled with arousing the other’s desires, our nights filled with passionate, lusty fucking, his enthrallment burning me with every touch, each voiced desire. The peeling off of my thin shirt, revealing my nude breasts for him to suckle and moan over, would no longer give way to, “I love how you look.”
The taste of passion once more on my tongue, I yearned for the same taste on his lips and to feel his raging desire as his loins pounded into me with all the fury of incessant need. Realizing that his trigger had been others lusting over my body, stoking the fires of desire manifesting in primal, horny lust, I continued reminding him of how his friends, random strangers, and others were aroused by the sight of me. My desire to be wanted grew to higher intensity, and my passion refused to be ignored.
Furiously, I worked, passionate words of desire bursting from my libido onto greeting card blurbs that scorched the readers’ hand. With fervent focus, now almost always partially nude, I painted images, romantic and torrid, for cards as well as an unbidden outpouring of my horny lust. The inferno of my hot, wet cunt tempered my paint, adding my passionate essence to my art. My determination to keep the fires of need stoked to inferno levels was the only craving that consumed me, pouring from my soul into my art and work.
The deep, dark bowels of my closet were raided, pillaged for sexier, more revealing clothes. Older garments, more mementos of past triumphs and what had been than intended to be worn again, adorned me. My inner essence mirrored the external transformation, my passion and desires erupting with every glance, each smile, a bounce in my steps.
Topless in the sweltering heat and oppressive humidity of Summer, I painted. Clad in only tight, paisley Yoga shorts that molded to my ass and highlighted the swell of my pubic mound, my desire for wanton attention was advertised in supple flesh covered in shiny splashes of color. Haphazardly tossed onto my desk was my top, a blowsy, loose crop top. The vestment of youthful, sexual spirit, billowy and seductive, one of the straps designed to fall off the shoulder, the soft garment hung perfectly from my breasts, enhancing their swell, and letting them bounce and sway freely with every movement. For now, though, it lay across my computer’s keyboard, inspirational images of furious passion, rough sex, and dark desires flashing across the monitor.
My canvas was alive with the fiery, sexual imagery made art by my phallic brush. A brunette woman, a goddess of passion, was surrounded by lewd, appreciative suitors. They stared at her nudity, leered at her hands clawing into her femininity, and gazed at her ripe breasts, reddened in her heat. One man, his face obscured in shadowy mist, stood apart, his throbbing cock held in his hands. My arousal made my cunt lips swell with desire, their outlines obvious through the tight spandex.
It was then that I heard the commotion, outside, as I recalled that the foundation for the new garage was to be poured this fine, sultry morning. Brazenly standing before the window, the curtains cast aside to let the natural light filter in, I saw Greg, my husband, and three of his friends. Bob and Jeff were inspecting the readiness of the foundation preparations, but Jake stood facing my window. Although some yards distant, his eyes grew wide when he spied me. Refusing to let the timidness of normalcy send me into petrified panic, I let the demoness of passion and the succubus of desire transform me into arousal personified. A knowing smile, accompanied by an almost imperceptible nod, let him know that I wasn’t too timid to be the object of lust.
“Jake. Hey, Jake,” I heard my husband’s friends calling. “Earth to Jake.” He had been staring into my office window, his mouth agape.
“You’re a lucky man,” he said to my husband, his voice warbling slightly. The succubus of my desire, knowing the meaning behind his words, growled with lust. The imps of my passion’s interest were piqued at that. The veiled innuendo was that he wanted to plunge his meaty shaft into my depths, and admire my impassioned flesh laid bare to his eyes.
Music wafted into the room along with the hot breeze and scorching heat. The rhythm of classic rock compelled my body to sway to the beat, my mortal flesh emulating musical copulation as the torrid painting, a manifestation of my urgent, physical longing, took form and shape in ethereal eroticism. For the sake of modesty, I donned the tattered smock to cover my heaving, bare tits, but I let it hang loose over my torso, unbuttoned and open.
The furnace of my sexual heat rose with the angry sun, my wetness leaving womanly saturation alongside the humidity’s sweat. Finishing my painting of voyeuristic kink, I stripped off the top, crossing the window with intentional slowness, and delighted in glimpsing Bob and Jeff elbowing each other.
My heightened arousal, increased from knowing that this lewd behavior incited uncontrollable passion in my husband, had my nipples hard, taut, and sensitive. The sensation of the downy, soft crop top being draped over my sweaty breasts sent shivers down my body, tingling my clit. A slight breeze from the midriff hem that hung like a curtain from the ends of my hard nipples chilled the lava-like sweat on my firm stomach with every movement.
Four icy beers, the condensation dripping off the bottles, were thrust between my firm tits, the glass bottles separating my bosoms as I walked outside. The tight seam of my Yoga shorts pressed in between my labia with every step, sending horny chills into my hole of desire. As I approached, smiling seductively, all work ceased, conversation dwindled into dying grunts, and the heat of the desire in their stares burned hotter than the Summer sun.
“It’s so hot, today, boys,” my churning passion sweetened every syllable. “Beers?”
All four of them just stared. “Fine, then. I’ll just put these on the patio, right here.” My back to them to hide me wantonly licking my lips, I felt the searing pressure of their eyes on my spandex-clad butt. Overwhelmed with passionate heat, I bent down, legs spread to show my pussy protruding, and gently placed the four bottles on the concrete.
“Don’t work too hard,” I told them, spinning to face them. The abruptness of my movement allowed my free, barely covered boobs to swing and bounce. Turning back, I leisurely walked back into the house, feeling their mutual desire permeate the air.
Back in my studio office, I paused only long enough to text my husband, “Did you see how your friends stared at my tits?” Consumed by horny passion, their craving for my body lighting fire between my legs, my hand thrust inside my shorts, attacking my clit with fury. Chancing a glance outside as my fingers ran through my wetness, I saw Jim adjust his manhood through his pants. That spawned an immediate, intense orgasm.
