Wish you were here. Wish you were her.

It starts with a kiss. On your neck. A blindfold on you. Yes that’s how it starts.

The blindfold heightens the other senses. So for example. If you are blindfolded and I am caressing your inner thigh, it might make you wonder what I might do next, while at the same time as…But then that would depend on how obedient you are too.

So you see, it’s all speculation. Except for the kiss. It would start with a kiss on your neck.

I’m curious. Do you taste of honeyed wood, of centuries of knowledge, of time that has stood still (for some lucky insect trapped in your gooey sap)? Do you taste of salty air? Or is your texture like a ripened pear?

And do you melt under heat? And how much heat? Is the heat of my breath on your breast enough? Or do you need a flame, a fire to change shape and form, until you become entangled.

Then I suppose it’s important for me to take time, to measure and sort and collect, a prepare. The application of heat can damage as much as it can warm….though I’ve never known my embrace to harm. So then slowly I can increase that heat. And maybe warm you enough to become liquid honey. Enough to smear you on my chest, smatter you on my lips. Swallow the little droplets that run away, after chasing after them down your legs, with my tongue.