Ezekiel

Other lovers have bitten me - nipped all of the pleasure zones, acted upon the windswept fetish escapade. Ezekiel goes right for the neck and hits the exact spot that defies all orgasmic rides. I am gone within seconds, floating into the subspace and inhaling what it must be to be alive. He never misses, never becomes the man still acting out the role of an awkward teenager stealing cramped opportunities under parental eyes.

There were those who caught me as a trophy, who wanted a dirty alleycat to justify their manhood. There were the ones who flirted with my habits and took it as a challenge, perhaps to match me, play their lore against mine. And of course there were boys turned on by razor blades, repulsed by handcuffs, and swimming with whatever manners could try to decode me, instead of just enjoying the trip while it lasted.

I don't have any such head games and mental tumbles with him - no fancy drinks to lure a naive girl into staying; no Necronomicon musings to strip off the clothing; no role playing written by horny boys trifling with what seemed taboo.

I'm caught in this rush where we blur into everything - every trick is done minus the stop cue actions of how and when and what and where - no script rehearsals or anxious performance ratings.

He does and I do. Brazenly.