You think you know me, baby? Before the door is even shut and clothes start to come off, you have me sliced, diced, and julienned into your tidy categories. Man. Dick. Wanker. That’s fine. Go ahead and don your sex-kitten armor. Unroll it over your desire like a condom, to keep everything safe and sterile. I’ll be happy to enjoy your body and move on. Even soft-serve, dipped in chocolate to mask the underlying vanilla, satisfies on a hot summer afternoon. Fuck you very much.
But don’t think I don’t notice the calm settle over you when my rope embraces your curves. Giving up control centers you, doesn’t it, baby? Quiets the voices in your head? I hear the mewl escape your lips when my clamp bites your nipple, see you squirm when I grab a fistful of hair and use it to bend you over the sideboard, feel you press back against me as my lubed fingers invade your ass. Pain tolerance is harder to fake than an orgasm, baby. You have a taste for kink. The dark side whispers your name, and makes you wet.
I don’t pretend to know all that makes you tick. Hell, at this point I barely know your name. But I already have trail markers to guide me, as I set my compass for the edge of your comfort zone and embark on my quest to find all your buttons to push and knobs to twist, the ones that transform paltry coupling by numbers into exquisite mindfuck. All I want, baby, is everything you have to give. And you don’t know Jack.
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This is gorgeous.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
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