I trail my lips down your spine, counting the vertebrae, and my hair follows. All the way to your ass. Bare and vulnerable.
Then back up over your bent, bound form. “Listen,” I whisper.
The crop in my hand twacks against my own thigh. Sharp. Hard.
Once, twice, thrice. “Hear that? That’s my heart beating for you. pretty girl”
My hand smooths over the curve of your ass. Delectable, warm, and far, far too white.
My cunt clenches in anticipation. Even as I raise my arm, even as I step away, one firm hand threaded into your short hair.
The crop, when it lands, snaps like bubblegum, but I’m not listening to that. I’m listening for that first tight, choked gasp.
And then for the sigh as I trail the leather tip up between the valley of your succulent thighs. I’ll stop only when I see
the raised red pattern of my labours on the lovely expanse of your ass. When I see the obscene trail of opalescent desire
has trickled down to your knees. Only then will I bend again, trace the welts with my tongue tip, a blind woman’s braille,
kiss you goodnight, and mourn that you are not mine to eat.