I have learnt a taste for blood these last days
its warm salty fingers running lazily over my tongue
the pretty crimson stain that spreads slowly across her neck
her delicate slender neck, like marble in the moonlight
save for the blood showing dark and heavy against her pale breasts
that rise and fall in the shallow panicked breaths of passion.
A taste for sweat and pain, and the mewling whispers as she asks for more.
But I will not hurry her on to ecstasy...

Tonight her pleasure is my art
her body is my string to pluck as I please
to strum with perverse patience
until the whole of her being hums on the verge of eruption
so close
so close
...ask for more...

She hovers on the brink of release and oblivion
the intense rainbow explosion that she can feel at the edge of her being
that she cannot quite hold onto, that I pull from her grasping fingers
...ask for more...

she can feel it
that unearthly flower twitching inside her
coaxed from its velvet husk
by my tender fingers, agile tongue, and sadistic libido.
I find her center.
She cries out.
My teeth cut new marks against her neck.
I can feel her bleed, just beneath the skin,
a river, her river
beyond the reach of my mouth and hungry tongue
running, pulsing
setting a subtle counter point to the frantic rhythm of her hoarse gasps
that come faster and faster
...ask for more...

Even as I whisper she can feel that exquisite dark flower
sending its roots through her,
sliding beneath her skin, wrapping tightly between her bones.
She can feel it spread its leaves
warm against her thighs and her belly
as I press hard upon her
again and again.

She is coming.

In an explosion of petals the flower blooms.
it lives in her skin for one vivid crimson moment
and no more
Even as it is born, it dies
its petals dropping
one
by
one
searing her flesh as they fall
each one a shuddering echo of ecstasy.

For that moment I am in control.
In that instant her body is no more than my instrument to move and manipulate;
my vessel to hold the ecstasy of heaven.

As the flower withers and is gone, she is spent.
It will be another while until her body
can replace what the flower has taken,
what I have pulled from her
what I have created.

In the sleepy intimacy of the moment after
she is sweaty and sated.
her hand strokes idly against my damp chest
and I am once again only a man.

...ask for more...

AcB 12.27.00