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By Galadrial Date: 2001 Oct 10 Comment on this Work [[2001.10.10.06.42.14658]] |
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There is a pattern to the need, a place where the playful falls away, and the skin seems peeled back, baring every nerve end to the possibility of your touch. One day given to the moon, where calm thought is impossible, and I become the virgin possessed by a ravening spirit that hungers for flesh to join me in reveling. That one day each 30 I keep to myself, wear modest clothing and do not meet the eyes of any because that day I am consumed, and lust is too pretty a word for the pulsing between these thighs. Oh god, the weight of cloth to skin is an unbearable friction, and what your hands or your tongue, or your rampant flesh would feel like against this new skin is a matter of sweet torment. I want to sink before you, desperate supplicant and flaunt the honey that wets my walk, fall open as every bit of blood floods my lips, plumping them for the taking, priming them for your thrust, preparing me for the feel of you when I am so far beyond consent. Take me roughly, hand wound tight in my hair, pound deeply in where the flesh gapes, or take the darker fruit or fill my mouth with your flesh so that my only sound is a muffled moan breathed joyously against veins throbbing, pulsing need fed by this wild hunger that makes me shake. NO time for love making--- no time for pretty, and do not tease---TAKE. Not once--- once cannot fill, not twice--- but over and over till this tense 24 has passed again leaving me full, saited and able to be the calm playful lover you know when the moon has not taken my soul, and demanded sexual sacrifice as the desired coin to redeem my skin. |