Wicked.

Wicked.

It's the way I feel when my hands descend. When my fingers gather the strands of your hair, an intimate gesture born gentle, but with aspirations of cruelty. Twining it around my fingers, silken threads that weave themselves into a pattern of acquiescence, the act becomes a ritual, and the ritual a prayer upon my lips. I would make of it a vessel of verisimilitude, when in truth it is merely a means to an end, an illusion meant to be as distracting as it is disingenuous. It is the shadow play enacted along the wall when our limbs become entwined.

The secrets we enact under the cover of darkness will have a weight that makes a sin of our lives. I will direct you, breathe my words across your skin until you shiver. Part your thighs a bit further…yes, like that, show me….yes. Now relax your hand…just like that, let my own grip warm yours, drawing it down…to….just….there, the edge of your heat. You know what I am doing? I am guiding your fingertips where my tongue will soon follow, and you, you're already wet. No…no, don't close your thighs, I want to watch your fingers under mine. That's it…my hand with yours, following your fingers inside of you…slow…slow….now faster….yes, part your fingers, draw them along the sides….now down again, curl your fingers…Enough. Now it is my turn.

Will you be wicked today?