Now, as I lounge across my overstuffed couch, fanning my long-fingered nails
waiting for my next lover, an unaware victim I'm sure, frenzied and stupid by
the scent that draws him running in zig-zag trails, not realizing though, that I
am still full from eating the last one.

A very good feed, lasting far longer than most meals in terms of arms and legs
that most always get cast aside somehow, too brittle and bland, the bottom of an old cast iron pan.

After a long poetic version of Brimstone And Treacle, I spread my legs for your breadth and pressing girth, surprised at my yearning for you and your
magnificence, surprised at how anxious I was to feel the hilt of my dagger lying
in wait, sheathed to the silkiness of my inner thigh.

Anticipating driving it into you as you thrust into me, but not wanting to halt the
ecstacy of the thinking, feeling, waiting and receiving. Where alas, it all joins into one twirling, white vision clinging to the place right behind my eyes, the point pleasure and pain gather together to become one warm, solvent glow.

Toying with the mood of slipping it between your ribs to feel your warmth flood my body, pleasing me with sudden convulsive writhing, uncontrollable spasm sending me to thick, blanketing crests smothering me in delicious tension
unwielding delight until the last of your spasms cease and the loneliness closes in once again.

Something about you, your hair, your deep scent, your lingering touch, your infantile nestling into my bosom endearing me to you, causing hesitation to my malice aforethought, staying the purpose of my most supreme, inner delight borne of the most primitive instinct.

And strangely, this night, I open up to release you, wiping the sweat away from between my tits licking it to taste our drink, after having tasted only you all night, the two us, mingled creating a more exotic flavor. One I wanted to languor in, but fell away into exhaustion. And some time during the night, you crawled away to safety.