The Butterfly Effect
You know about my wrists. How they burn and ache. Two slender wounds that weep for help.
You also know that the only cure is the bite of rope. Which you do apply, patiently, night after night, to make me heal.
But tonight you ignore the routine. Instead, you take only one wrist, slowly wrap a silk scarf around once, twice, for the third time and - a little smile on your lips - finish with a ribbon.
Stepping back to appraise your work, your Nude, Unbound, you notice something that escaped your attention at first. It is not a ribbon but a butterfly that perches there, provokes, opens and closes its wings in the rhythm of my pulse. You watch it in silence, then whisper something under your breath. The fragile tease takes off and carries my hand to where you want it.
You must be possessed by gods of caprice because you don’t direct it down but to my breast. There is nothing even distantly devious about your command but you have caught me unprepared. I close my eyes and a deep blush spills across my face as fingers start stroking the underside. The ball of my thumb mirrors the movement from above. My nipple the meeting point.
The stroking, gentle and slow at first, makes me painfully aware of how much I long for your touch, for your textures.
Your fingers. Not quite rough but not soft either.
Your dry lips. Your restless tongue. A touch of teeth perhaps? A shiver runs down my spine when I think of that.
Your velvety cock. What would it be like if, for once, your head tormented my nipples instead of my lips? The thought makes my heart pound.
Look at me.
The rumble of your voice rips me from my shelter. Drags me out to your real presence. I look up and see the clouds gathering in your eyes, a promise of a long and unrelenting storm.
Not that we ever do not end up in a storm. But sometimes… sometimes it takes a flutter of a butterfly’s wings to raise it.
Such tempting imagery. Subtle, sexy, suspense.
(Source: mypassionforwomen)