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take me home


Unf, please Sir — tease me so fucking good!

I love teasing him, I don’t know, I’ll kiss down his chest, bite across his navel and move my tongue along the sides of his waist.

I love getting him to the point where even the slightest touch of my hands on the edges of his thighs sends his dick upwards,

I love when my fingers are hovering a few millimeters away and he wants it so bad and he jumps into my touch… I love when I lean down, and breathe on him and tease him lightly with my fingertips and he groans, and his eyes are looking down at me…

I love opening my mouth over him, not touching him with my lips or tongue at all, but just enough so that he knows I’m around him, he knows it and he’s groaning and practically begging me to touch him…

I stare into his eyes, deep and with intent. I don’t want him just ‘hard’, that description of any old erection. No, I want more. Much, much more.

I want his veins to pulsate and engorge with blood, as if it were a ventricle of his very heart. I want heat, thick and visible, to radiate from his organ, as if it were smoldering lava from the depths of Pompeii. And I want his body pale and depleted of redness, as every last bit of blood rushes to fill and overload that singular rod of pleasure.

I want his eyes open, but unseeing. I want his body exposed, but unfeeling. I want his mind conscious, but unthinking. I want ‘him’ to be nothing more than that searing pulsation wrapped so gently around my rosy lips. I want the entirety of his being to exist in, and only in, his organ.

And that, despite clamorous protests of torture, is why I so delicately kiss his tip, and when I finally do and his entire body rises into my touch and his head falls back onto the pillow and this tremendous moan like honey slips from the back of his throat…

That is why I tease, to the brink of insanity. Yeah, I love that. xxx




Keep Going. 

(via myshiny

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Your room is not your prison. You are.
Sylvia Plath, 6 July 1953, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via stainedpoems)

(Source: lifeinpoetry)

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