The tension builds as I feel the ripples course through my skin, bones heavy bound by chains and blood still as wine. My hands shake inside as I pet my pocket drawing a mental image of the blade hidden in my wallet.
Moments seem to drop like sand as I debate and become seduced by the very thought of my skin splitting under the edge of a firm quarter-inch blade.
In time the lustful thought becomes oh so much and they say flesh is weak and thus the mind gave birth to so called sin.
At this time my hand has violated the inside of my pocket so rough stretching the stitching eager with desire. Hand out with open wallet in hand, a sense of gentle passion comes over me like a mist that clings to the body of a flower as my fingers slide between the folds searching like a virgin babe.
Moments pass and I find that spot, fingers deep feeling a squeeze with a tremble a chill vibrating up my arm, over taking my bones, rooting in my soul – my very being.
I retract my fingers, my goal reached, treasure in hand disregarding the worn leather flap that seemed so important, so important at the time, so I thought. Sounds of pleasure and excitement fleet from my lips like trapped air escapes a balloon.
This greatly mistaken weapon glides across my skin searching as my eyes sail your curves darling, forearm thick like your hips and wrist tender like your throat. I can take it no longer, my eyes shut as I guide the blade down and in with a pinch then a sting soothed by the warmth as I go deeper and deeper as if I take you all the way.
You remember that time don’t you?
I pull the blade as the farm hand plows the soil, gliding through this weak flesh feeling my wine flow, flow, and overflow running away becoming free.
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