‹ Prequel: Rose
Slow Burn
five senses
wet fingers and touch and something sweet something dark and where is that noise coming from? like clicks and switches. kisses, drowing in the taste of something syruppy synthetically sweet likee raspberry sweet. fake raspbery sweet like the stuff they drizzle on ice cream. nothing cold just heat, a slow burn. incense, david bowie, fake raspberries, heat and darkness. but there's a sixth sense too, something sensual and soft as the pretence of clothing disappears and something consumes them like fire like dragons eating birds of paradise.
shuddering - part in pleasure, part nerves. kisses, and the tongue meets neck and something changes. not just the tongue but touches on parts i had forgotten. not even in masturbation had i given the marble of nerves any thought but it has not escaped her notice. the kisses are too much and deep deep breaths, vicious viscous and sticky, melted toffees in a pocket. burning roses, my Rose my rose and her hair tickles my nose and i feel a slave to Eros, to Sappho, to all the little parts of the mind that reason tells you to lock away.
the breasts rise like the moon. kissing, tasting - i feel flooded in senses and drowning in them. something feels so wrong about it, like to feel so much in all senses should be illegal. but blind me, deafen me, nothing can stop touch, nothing touches fire. even the drowning that rises high over our heads, high over the bed can't touch it.
i move down and kiss her as high on her thigh as is possible to still call her thigh. a twitch a glitch, I've ruined it something wrong no no oh no can't do can't be.
whispers above Major Tom. It's okay, it's okay.
and i taste her. my hands do something but i'm too fixated. i could do it until the end of time - the rub in my own guts - ay, therein lies the rub - can go beg. servitude appeals to me, let me be that avid worshipper. And taste and taste and wet and taste and her hips move and i feel a clawing on bitten fingernails along my spine and it feels not like a punishment but as encouragement and then-
a cry, a radiant face, sweat, soft flesh and the taste of her on my lips and no dementia will take that from me.
shuddering - part in pleasure, part nerves. kisses, and the tongue meets neck and something changes. not just the tongue but touches on parts i had forgotten. not even in masturbation had i given the marble of nerves any thought but it has not escaped her notice. the kisses are too much and deep deep breaths, vicious viscous and sticky, melted toffees in a pocket. burning roses, my Rose my rose and her hair tickles my nose and i feel a slave to Eros, to Sappho, to all the little parts of the mind that reason tells you to lock away.
the breasts rise like the moon. kissing, tasting - i feel flooded in senses and drowning in them. something feels so wrong about it, like to feel so much in all senses should be illegal. but blind me, deafen me, nothing can stop touch, nothing touches fire. even the drowning that rises high over our heads, high over the bed can't touch it.
i move down and kiss her as high on her thigh as is possible to still call her thigh. a twitch a glitch, I've ruined it something wrong no no oh no can't do can't be.
whispers above Major Tom. It's okay, it's okay.
and i taste her. my hands do something but i'm too fixated. i could do it until the end of time - the rub in my own guts - ay, therein lies the rub - can go beg. servitude appeals to me, let me be that avid worshipper. And taste and taste and wet and taste and her hips move and i feel a clawing on bitten fingernails along my spine and it feels not like a punishment but as encouragement and then-
a cry, a radiant face, sweat, soft flesh and the taste of her on my lips and no dementia will take that from me.