tightening

Sometimes it starts slow, an unfurling of wings, this widening of hunger.

And sometimes it takes but a moment. Tinder to a fire.

Fingers tangled in lace, a tightening. I can feel the leather hugging your curves as I pull each loop methodically, keeping the tension as I work my way to the top before tying it off.

I like things contained; applying pressure to something contained implies violence, a moment when the vessel will no longer be enough to hold.

Wrists caught in my hands; the pulse along your neck, caught between my teeth.

You, in a corset.

When I grip your hips and pull you forward, I love the way you are brought as a whole, the corset capturing the middle while leaving your throat, thighs, and ass free.

I bring your leg up around my waist as I lean you back against the wall. Pressing between your thighs, my eyes on yours, I steal the red from your lips, kissing you slowly, forcefully, opening you.

But if I am need unwound, you are pliant, soft, and hunger itself. You kiss back and it becomes unclear who is devouring who – just what is caught.

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