Eyes Wide Open

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He never closes his eyes. He looks at me when he kisses me, brings his hand up to my face, as if he is afraid I am an illusion that might dissipate, he watches me to make sure I don’t disappear.
My lover tells me he is a visual creature, that is true. Strange that is does not make me uncomfortable or self conscious, his always looking, watching. He tells me he is recording me in his mind, that during his long hours alone he will play me back, the line of my jaw, the play of emotion over my face, an orgasm rolling over my features.
For some reason, I don’t mind his study. While I hold no illusions of beauty so great he cannot tear his eyes away, I know he sees something in me, on me, that I do not.
Sitting across a table, he looks at my eyes, my hair, my smile, when he walks behind me I feel it, feel the intensity with which he watches my stride.
So when he looks down to see himself going in and out of me, I watch him looking. When he tells me what he sees when he fucks me from behind, I am not pushed over the edge by what he is describing, rather that he is describing it, that he is making note.
When I am riding him, facing his feet, and turn to look behind me, look over my shoulder to see his face, it is more than my eyes he sees, or my shoulder, or my hair all wild. It is not just the pinkness, the juiciness, of my cunny sliding up and down on his dick, it is the picture that is being projected onto his eyes, into his heart and his mind. He never stops recording.
Except for that one instant, less than a second, when he starts to cum. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, grabs my ass, bucks, shouts as he comes into me. For that one second, he stops looking, he is inside his own head, just sensation, just the point where we join, that is all.
Then he opens his eyes, yes baby, I am still here.

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