Past Present by Secret Narrative Page A

tongue has its own mind? Has a need for exploration. Consider foreign objects in your mouth, a gap between your teeth, an ulcer or a sweet. Your tongue worries it, and agitates until satisfied that all is well. That the contours are correct, the new swelling is okay. It has computed you.
    Your tongue uses knowledge when exploring the silken velvet within the core of me, your ears snug against my thighs, deprived of sound. But I hear you slurp, your gentle probe, my moans mingled with the noise of your meal.
    You’re a noisy eater. In gluttonous consummation of my drenching, thirst quenching, secret folds. Mobile fingers entangle your hair and rudely push you harder. Your nose, a nuzzling creature, makes a perfect connection with the centre of my universe. You, you, you. Your spark ignites my fire.
    A first for you. A first and last. I am your final evolution of lustful longing, your expertise, a symphony, a masterpiece of tongue and fingers, playing me to crescendo, and the peak of my being. Rolling in blue. I have a colour wheel in my head, quite unlike any other in existence. Its subjectivity and subject unique, there is only one of you and can be no other. I feel brighter, more eye-catching when basking in your company. No violet for me, I have a wish to dominate as if I were coloured red, in intoxicating intensity against your cool green pools.
    I part the moist tissues that shield my teeth and suck you in whole, a greedy meal, fast food for the furious whoreship at the altar of your sacrifice. Your creamy essence, freely given, expended, just so, a perfect delivery into the back of my throat. Viscosity comforts me; there is no better place for me than kneeling at your feet.
    When we parted, you left me eight tasks.
    “One for each day of my absence,” you said.
    My belt of chastity agreed electronically. You do not need a key. We agree. I go to the supermarket. No panties beneath the soft, floaty fabric of my skirt. A brisk day, a breeze. My immodesty betrayed by the prayed-for gust, exposing me when I buy the ginger-root of pleasure for your amusement.
    My anus, always ready for you. You wonder at my new need for buggery. I need your brutal entry amid our loving. I wear your collar; allow your claim, your entry, and my ecstasy. You transport me to the podium of slavery, I’m for sale, and I have a price. Name it. Name it now and take me home. Unwrap me. Don Mr Happy’s Business Suit and plunge your latex covered shaft, deep, deep inside me. Sheath yourself within my secret folds.
    Do you believe in ghosts? I feel you behind me. I’m reading. Looking into the iPad, my research notes open, the words dance in front of my eyes, Read and re-read. Seeping my pores until they are a part of me and I work them through.
    My heart skips with the idea of blindfold and restraint. I wish you were here to see and feel it; I am wet, so wet, and so hot for you and your iron-hard cock. I imagine that it is inside me, moving, moving, oh so slowly, tightly sheathed in and out, out and in. Until you spill your seed.
    Plunder me, make me yours. Tie me, bind me, turn me over your knees and spank me until I beg you to cease. Plug me with a shard of ginger and fig me to heaven. When you are finished, pull me to you and kiss my mouth, joust with me, our tongues battling, before you plunge your cock into the deep recesses of my throat and cream me. Taste yourself on me, my love; lick your essence from my tongue.
    My collar is red, purchased at your behest, engraved with the pet name, “Puss.” I fasten it, I’m naked, my pale skin gleams, reflecting the colour, red, at my neck like a ribbon of blood and my lips, scarlet, signalling danger and desire in equal measure. I think of the words, the soft patter of syllables as I read from left to right. Delight as if I am a child at Christmas. I uncover us slowly, unfolding us, layer upon layer, like pass-the-parcel. Smoothing our intimacy beneath my fingertips, as precious as the gossamer wings