Sanguine Blood tastes like machinery, all meat and gears and motor oil. You don’t expect i
Sanguine Blood tastes like machinery, all meat and gears and motor oil. You don’t expect it, even when you do, because it’s not something you can prepare yourself for. The sight of it is just as lurid and loud as the taste, arrested your senses one by one like a stubborn cop. I kiss hard, all teeth and aggressive tongue, trying to claim your mouth as much as I’m trying to wrest your mind to the ground. Sometimes, you’ll return fire. Blood tastes like surprise, when it’s your own. When teeth have played with your top lip, pulled it out, and snapped it back, and you’re ready to surge forward to retaliate. Blood tastes like what the fuck, seeping over your mouth, dripping down your teeth. Blood tastes like the smile on her face when she tastes it, and makes all manner of sounds you aren’t accustomed to. It’s easy to slip into a routine as a Dominant, even when you’re improvising, composing on the spot. It’s like jazz; you know the key, and you know the melody, and it’s just about twisting and turning it to suit the situation. You don’t get curveballs, not often, and when one comes along it can throw you for a loop, knock you off your footing, and make you loosen your grip on control for just a moment. Which makes those moments dear to me. Mistakes and missteps lend perspective, even if it’s only in retrospect, and it’s pretty hard to get a good look at myself a lot of the time. Blood tastes like vulnerability, and I haven’t felt like that in a long time. It’s important to remember how it feels, so I know exactly how to twist the knife next time you’re face down on the bed, back arched, cunt dripping. Blood tastes like beautiful, when it’s yours. -- source link
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