my Achilles

he’s clearly been working out and has probably taken off 20lbs. he has always been muscular and toned but now he is sculpted. he is marble sheathed in bronze skin. when i look at him, my stomach drops, like a child leaning backwards on a swing set after pumping their legs hard, to climb higher and higher into the sky. every time i see him, it is the same. sheer recognition of him as a powerful male animal.

to look at him, almost hurts. he is physically one of the most beautiful men i’ve ever seen. he is broad shouldered, with muscles delineated from the cords on his neck, over his shoulders and down his arms. and his back. jesus. his back. his back makes your breath catch as a tingle of awareness shivers your skin from jawline and over your flesh in awareness, of his physical body. his perfectly made male body.

his back is a cascade of muscles and even the tiniest of movements sends an avalanche of motion which begs your eyes to watch, encourages your hands to touch, inspires you  to fantasize instantly about running your mouth over them. and now those muscles are long and lean, rather than thickly swollen. he’s tight. and when i touch him, i can’t think. there is a rushing in my ears. i am nothing but sensation. i am born again into carnality.

his legs, his ass…they’re perfect. high tight, thick, long, so amazingly formed. he looks like a highly trained athlete. he is so strong. so impossibly strong. even though i know it, it shocks me to see it, every single time. i don’t think i would ever get tired of looking at him. it sends a tendril of something primitive into the deepest female mammalian part of my brain. the part which screams for alpha male to breed me. to take his seed. to have him dominate me.

which he does. every single time. and then, after he has ravaged me, taken me hard and forced me to submit to his desires, his needs to make me weak and tremble, when I am incapable of doing anything but respond to him, that is when he holds me. kisses my forehead and smooths my hair back from my face. when he pulls me to his side and holds me, stroking my back and talking softly to me as he thumbs the tears from the corners of my eyes.

he is my Achilles heel. this massively big and statuesque man guilt like a Spartan or a Greek God. i am his voluptuous consort, built for his comfort and carnal enjoyment. soft where he is hard. smooth where he is hairy. he is my weakness. my downfall. the single thing i can not control or challenge.

This entry was posted in a mans body, advice, Relationships and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to my Achilles

  1. Marty says:

    Ahhhh … I think it’s very good for you to have a Greek god to keep you under control.

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