Once upon a time, in the quiet corners of my heart, there bloomed a longing—a tender ache that whispered of a love yet to be. My future husband, a phantom presence, danced through my dreams, leaving traces of warmth and promise between my legs, my loins aching in agony of my favourite body part of his, the longing that rings in my mind at days. His laughter echoed across the vast expanse of time, a melody that only my heart could hear.
In the quietude of moonlit nights, I would sit by the window, tracing constellations with my fingertips if i could a constellation of his and mine our story written in the stars, our love our warmth our life. What a life ahead, my head on his chest as he twirls with my life over the now growing feeling, feelings of eruption only described in a moan so load I might wake the neighbours, the eruption he creates within every touch of lick, kiss, bite. mmmmm my favourite part a little pain with the pleasure to reassure his demand for me his control like I’m his puppet and he is my master.
Each star held a secret, a wish cast into the cosmic tapestry. And there, amidst stardust and longing, I wove a story—a love story that transcended the mundane, defying distance and circumstance.
He was a poet, my future husband that wrote his poetry over my body making it impossible to read the fine lines he drags over me, the loving lines of secretes, the secretes of me being his little slut of pleasure. I listen to his voice like a roaring weaver of words, "call me DADDY" he says, I crumble within those lines. ❤
His verses of poetry painted sunsets on my soul, and I, a willing canvas, a canvas that he paints his longing on me and then IN me, deep within my body I feel the hue of every colour of a ray a light struck through me as he rips through me filling me with all of him, all his worries, his tragedy his past every bit of it, that is what I get from him and that is what I want all of him, all of him. HE tastes me after he let himself explode in me, making me feel like his little favourite plaything, his princess.
His laughter after I curl my toes, tasted like rain-kissed petals, and his eyes held galaxies within their depths, looking me up and down to see me struggle and worm from excitement. We existed in the margins of reality, where time flowed like honey—a sweet, inexorable current that drew us closer, made us inseparable.
Our love was a symphony—an intricate dance of vulnerability and strength. We whispered secrets in the language of touch that no one would ever understand, our fingers mapping constellations on skin. He knew my scars—the jagged edges of past and heartaches—and loved them all as part of my constellation. And I, in turn, traced the lines of his dreams, mapping the path to his heart with my own knowing he would want me drawing with my mouth all over his body, kissing away the pain of the past making my way up to find his mouth and neck and that little sensitive spot right between is neck and ear.
But life, ever the capricious artist, painted shadows across our canvas. Obligations and responsibilities tugged at our sleeves, threatening to unravel our delicate tapestry of our bed. Exams, deadlines, and technical glitches during online tests—the mundane intruded, demanding attention. Yet, even in those moments of frustration, I clung to the memory of his laughter, the promise of shared sunsets in bed entangled at night wishing we can stay awake for longer than we should, just to have those loving sensual, nights where he makes me feel like daddies Good Girl.
And so, my future husband, whether you dwell in the realm of dreams or walk this earth without me by your side, I hold space for you. In the quiet corners of my heart, the longing persists—a beacon that guides me through the labyrinth of days, those day's I miss you between me. Someday, our love story will spill from the margins into the vibrant centre of existence.
Until then, until you fill my bed with your warmth, I write our tale in ink and stardust, whispering it to the night sky. For love, my dear phantom, is patient—it waits across lifetimes, defying logic and reason. And when our hands finally touch, it will be as if the universe exhales, releasing a sigh of recognition—a cosmic “finally.” as I want to explode with you the dreaded thought of it makes me feel warm with longing.
And so, my future husband, know this: You are already etched into my soul, a love story waiting to unfold. Until then, I’ll keep tracing constellations, weaving dreams, and longing for the day when our laughter mingles with the stars.
