He trailed his fingers along the crying rip in my throat, then smeared my lips. I tasted myself - the needs, the inhibitions still crawling, the current ecstasy - I tasted that part in me I think is dying, finally going away now that I don't have to be the familiar repressive little girl with him. I tasted what is inherent to the peal of a hunting horn, let the games begin small creatures burrowing as the predators let loose. On my tongue rested a billion consequences of a timeless time insisting on maintaining survival.
I tapped into the real me.
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