Philip B
I have a hunger—a fervour—for touch. The glancing brush, the soothing stroke, the finessed caress. I crave the touch of a lover I’ve never had.
A frisk. A fondle. A finger. To feel and to be felt. For a lover I’ve never smelt, never been dealt, never held.
To be loved. To be missed. To be kissed. To be thought about. To be looked forward to.
I want to be held—squeezed so tightly that I feel broken. So that the physical fractures match the emotional ones.
I imagine your hard hands tracing down my arms, your fingers brushing the inside of my wrist, interlacing with mine. Your grip firm on my neck, your breath warm on my face. Our tongues colliding in a sticky, tacky lust.
You grab my waist, and I brace for what’s coming.
Your fingers, a creeping movement, expanding to a palm. Slow, deliberate. Tingling from knee to shining sea, along the inner thigh. I would die if I could not have you. Inside me.
You lift me, hands firm on my arse. A graze across my breasts—a wanted grope. Sensitive to your touch, my nipples drawn to your mouth. Nom nom, you take them in.
Pulse quickens. Blood rushes. Pressure rises. Glands respond. Things swell.
It’s a meaty, visceral desire.
Tension rises. Trouser pressure builds. But still, you tease.
Circling, slowly, your finger traces my lips. I taste myself, electric and raw.
There is a fine line between pleasure and pain. A craving buried deep in the skin.
To be loved. To be missed. To be kissed. To be thought about. To be looked forward to.
A subcutaneous craze for a brush, a rub, a blow—a taste of a lover.
A lover I’ve never had.
Credits
- Client: Philip B
- Agency: Karima Asaad
- Production: Karima Asaad
- Role: Photographer, Co -Director, Creative Director and Production