Savoring the sticky sweet taste of hard cherry in your mouth, you continue to let me appraise you with my eyes.
And you know you must look like such a sexy little tramp, as you roll that lollypop around in your mouth.
You’re so disheveled by this humidity, your skimpy loose buttoned blouse, resting against your collar bones and chest, relaxed, braless, your breasts as firm, obedient and as youthful as ever, and where my keen eyes can easily make out the faint outline of your small dark areolas, and the hardened craving of your jutting nubile nipples.
Your A-line skirt is tight, the hemline immodest and arguably shameless. You catch my line of sight, my eyes held to your hips, and toying with you.
Playfully you turn to the side so that I can see how your ass is barely covered, causing me to gain a rude glimpse of the little triangle of space caught between your moist thighs.
And the long shapely line of your legs that follow, flowing down, eventually ending in those strappy red Lauren sandals.
“You walked here like that?” I venture, and you can hear my jealousy choked, stung by my own tongue as I speak with the venom and vitriol of my Scorpio mind, my words wanting to whip you into submission.
You nod, with a smile that says, you don’t own me, not yet at least. And you give me pause, waiting for my eyes to travel back up to your face, allowing me the freedom to linger on all your sweet spots before finally fixating on your cherry red sugar-stained lips.
What kept you? I’m thinking, and you’re sure I can read you, just like I write you, wet, wild, and wanted.
You continue sucking on the lollipop provocatively. Knowing I treasure your face; the amber flecked mysteries of Tantric treasures hidden in the swirling seas of your green eyes, each fringed with thick dark lashes, set against classical cheekbones, held above your small delicate nose and your soft cupid’s bow lips.
It’s the softness and the intimate innocence of these features that disarm me. They seem to be in such unexpected contrast to your overt sexual inclinations, and good god how this excites me and turns me on. Glimpsing your truth, such innocence craving to be defiled. By me.
Knowing you’re the only fox I’ve ever known. And my heart pulses with confusion, pressing up against my ribs, because to a fox I am both the hound and the hare.
One moment I’m blood lusting, running through the woods chasing you, the next I’m panic stricken, overwhelmed by my own inner vulnerability, blinded by the power and light of your intimate and overtly sexual attraction.
My mind becomes paralyzed with competing demands, one side screaming to take you rough and hard, while the other begs to seduce you, worship you, and lure you to safety. You watch me struggle with the polarity of my conflicted and competing needs.
And you feel yourself torn with testing me. Feeding your own need to be cherished and seduced, yet hungry to be dominated and tamed with aggression. It’s not that you want me to break you.
But fuck, you want me to try.