Dip your finger and suck it dry; sticky, honey.
Slide your hands down my back - remember to pause on the ribs, count them one by one, fingertips pressed into fat.
Walk your fingers down the spine, tip tap tip tap, and sit your eager fingers right above the parting of flesh. Dripping.
Press your nose so deep in the nook of the neck that you smell my history: ombre leather and nicotine.
Creep your hands through my curls, and grip them at the nape. Tug it. Exhale into my ears.
Flip. Move. Wriggle down. Coy. Bold. Panting.
Trail your lips inch by inch. Drag the teeth. Make a mark. Until you meet the gateway.
Hozier once said, if you’re hungry, eat pussy or hunt.
Are you starving? Darling? Here. Put your lips to something.
Tip it. Tilt it. Slide it back. Eat it. Feast it. Sticky sweet. Salty slip.
It’s saliva; it’s juice; it’s sweat; it’s sweet; it’s throbbing.
Press the palms against the thighs, pop the hips.
Splayed like a piece of art, arched and open.
Eat.
Listening to:
This one matters cause there is part of it in the above words:
Although the two that I prefer is actually Talk or Dinner and Diatribes, both from the Wasteland, baby! album.