Your Golden Plated Throat
Blurry
You're voice drops to a gravely low before crescendoing into a twirling high. There's tears at the corners of your eyes, crystalline thoughts that are salty against my tongue. I can feel you shiver as I lap them up. You just can't decide can you? Rough or gentle, pain or pleasure, it's a choice you can't make. You prefer them both, mixed together to the point where line between them isn't even blurry, it's nonexistent.
I know how you revel in the sounds of your own pleasure, how you would survive alone if you could. But we both know that in the throes of it all, when your oh so meticulously built walls are in shambles, you enjoy the presence of others, even more than one. The more the merrier certainly applies to you. You're insatiable, a little slut for anyone you think is pretty enough.
Some would call you sick, revolting; your lack of morals, animalistc. Exhibitionist. Sadist. Masochist. You could be called so many things, but once your heart morphs into a humming bird trapped in the cracked and golden plated cage of your throat, those definitions couldn't be more wrong.
To be forced to your knees, coerced into a sniveling begging mess of pleas and promises is an ultimate fantasy for you. Irony at its best, the power hungry wanting to be deprived and dominated. It's erotic at best, pathetic at worst.
My little liebling, a confusing puzzle of a girl that would intimidate all but the best. All but those you chose to prey upon.
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I know how you revel in the sounds of your own pleasure, how you would survive alone if you could. But we both know that in the throes of it all, when your oh so meticulously built walls are in shambles, you enjoy the presence of others, even more than one. The more the merrier certainly applies to you. You're insatiable, a little slut for anyone you think is pretty enough.
Some would call you sick, revolting; your lack of morals, animalistc. Exhibitionist. Sadist. Masochist. You could be called so many things, but once your heart morphs into a humming bird trapped in the cracked and golden plated cage of your throat, those definitions couldn't be more wrong.
To be forced to your knees, coerced into a sniveling begging mess of pleas and promises is an ultimate fantasy for you. Irony at its best, the power hungry wanting to be deprived and dominated. It's erotic at best, pathetic at worst.
My little liebling, a confusing puzzle of a girl that would intimidate all but the best. All but those you chose to prey upon.
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