Ignited In Silence And Raised To Your Harlot Mouth

Ignited in silence and raised to your harlot mouth

Pinched in the uneven crescent of your lips

Your sallow face awash in a delicious glow

Bllowing a pretty grey haze

Washing me with a gentle graze

As it skittered away, you uttered three words

They drew me like water from a well:

"Make me cry”

She was dressed and made up in such a way that you *almost* wanted to avoid touching her and just sit and stare.

Appreciate her, admire her, longingly gaze at her…

Almost.

Her heart is leviathan-sized

But before you tread, please understand, it’s made of delicate glass

When she gives it to you, only a templar blood-oath will do

So, pour yourself into her sinewy confines until she overflows

Bridge yourself, weld yourself, cover her darkness

Shield her under stacks of the highest thread-count linens

And orbit her aura until you collide

An unsettling need, it refuses to pass

We wait for that morbid release

A ritual that makes our flesh so bloody, so numb

Once the fuse is lit, we tremble with sickly rapture

Then the pain seems gone

But it won’t be for long

Shy-girl, watching-girl

Always-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue-girl

Dancing around the main idea

True center of the words

I am along the lines, between the notes

Deprivation

I have stolen your sight. Your green eyes, those viridescent jewels that seem to live in the back of my mind at all times, are sadly—just for one night—concealed from my gaze.

You know you’re being observed by her; it has driven you to a point of arousal I’ve not seen from you since the first time I kissed your neck. I can literally smell your vivication. And so can you.

The room is warm and freshly cleaned. Her perfume hangs in the air. Sensuously rich. “Is that pomegranate?” you inquire to yourself. Holding on to anything to compensate for your lack of vision, you anticipate the lyrics of Jeff Buckley’s ‘Through the Yard of Blonde Girls’ playing faintly in the background.

Your breathing is staggered as if you might hyperventilate. That crimson flush… I watch it spread from your cheeks to your neck and chest.

”Who is she? What does she look like?” you wonder. The desire to know is consuming you. But those questions aren’t going to be answered. Not yet. And maybe never. I haven’t decided if that blindfold is coming off tonight.

As I look on, our guest uncrosses her legs. She stands. Partially disrobing, she begins to inch slowly toward you. The sound of her chair settling, followed by the footfalls of her heels on the hardwood floor, signal what’s coming.

I hear you audibly gasp…

You could cum right now if I told you to.