A TASTE OF OUR AUTHORS' NAUGHTY WORDS...
Hungry for more?
We want to give you plenty!
...He sees it in her eyes, the fear rising. She can’t stop it. The fact is, no one can; its instinct, fight or flight. Reaching out from the cold of the buckle, he touches her skin, feeling her warmth encouraging her to stay. He runs his hand down her body to her stomach. The fingers use delicate touching like a brush or a tickle; He aches to return to the task of getting the belt loose, of feeling the weight of it in his hand.
The sound of the belt running through the loops to freedom was so swift, one might have missed it if not for the dead quiet of the room....
He smelled like outdoors with the smoky scent of Mezcal.
He said in a deep voice, “Thank you for the show.” He leaned in close and I looked into his eyes, a shocking green, feeling mesmerized like a rabbit in front of a snake.
I felt one hand push me hard against the wall as his hand traced over an erect nipple.
“I really did appreciate the show; do you do any more than show?”
My monsieur, cut from cloth that is no longer spun, how breathless I become at the mere idea. A vision, a thought, a conjuring of simple skin upon skin. I fumble through days. Nights I bask in wordless ramblings. Crushed embers of passion slip into the food I eat, the drink I pour, the dreams that wake me in pools of anticipation.
Monsieur is an apothecary, a poisoned berry plucked from my own Garden of Eden. Distilled in delinquency, debauchery, and decadence. A drug, a pill, a pillar of salt.