sensuality machine
Pomegranate juice splashed into my eye, stained my cuticles, shined a pinkish mauve glaze on my fingers. And I could be very classy, eat the pomegranate seeds with a silver spoon, but I prefer to eat them with my hands.
Once I bought a red silk shibari scarf not due to how lovely it is, but because I imagined how it would feel on skin. I imagined brushing it across someone's face while their eyes are closed, or down the length of their chest and stomach. I imagined how it would feel across the nipples, around the penis, grazing against the inner thighs.
Sometimes the only conversation I hear during dinner is the exchange between my glass of wine and my feminine parts. If a good dessert is on the menu, my thighs will be crossed tightly while I shift around in my seat. Pure delight.
God help me if the primary decor is my beloved red.
Although, his eyes are capable of holding my attention, pushing down on the desire itself so that it is heavy and stirring beneath the surface. So that I wait.
I wait with my pomegranates, peeling back the pale yellow layers to unveil a small group of dark red seeds. I wait with my silk scarf next to the bed. I wait with my restless hips. I wait with my hands busy in paint and charcoal.
And I wait.
Once I bought a red silk shibari scarf not due to how lovely it is, but because I imagined how it would feel on skin. I imagined brushing it across someone's face while their eyes are closed, or down the length of their chest and stomach. I imagined how it would feel across the nipples, around the penis, grazing against the inner thighs.
Sometimes the only conversation I hear during dinner is the exchange between my glass of wine and my feminine parts. If a good dessert is on the menu, my thighs will be crossed tightly while I shift around in my seat. Pure delight.
God help me if the primary decor is my beloved red.
Although, his eyes are capable of holding my attention, pushing down on the desire itself so that it is heavy and stirring beneath the surface. So that I wait.
I wait with my pomegranates, peeling back the pale yellow layers to unveil a small group of dark red seeds. I wait with my silk scarf next to the bed. I wait with my restless hips. I wait with my hands busy in paint and charcoal.
And I wait.