A Taste of Honey

August 9, 1788
 
 
Mon Cher D.
 
I told you how much I love honey. Watching it drip from my spoon, into my tea. Its slow sensuality, doucement. Thick as a man’s pleasure, clinging… until the last moment. I lose myself in its amber prism.
 
Of course, I was not surprised when you brought a petite jar to the bed. I sat simply restrained, thumbcuffed from behind, toe cuffs on my big toes. Papillion, the butterfly pose. It was beautiful in its minimalism and its accessibility. With a simple tip by my ankles… you exposed what you desired.
 
“Before we begin,” you announced. Then held out a smooth polished stone. Shaped like an egg, but slightly larger, you held it out for me to see. It was soft pink in color, morganite. “I acquired this in Mozambique.” Before I even thought to say anything, you pressed it between my parting lips. “Beauty should be seen… not heard,” you said with an impish smile. I flashed one back. The weight on my tongue was liberating.
 
Silenced and helpless, I watched as you open the jar. With a glass dipper you mixed up the sweet syrup. Then you tipped back my head. I could see as you lifted the dipper up over the center of my chest. Then held it in place.
 
“Anticipation is not just for pain.” I swallowed my saliva. Readjusted myself for what I expected would be a while in this position. All the while the thick amber honey began its descent. Like you, in no hurry. Until I felt is pool between my breasts. Felt its warm stickiness spread.  
 
“You are my canvas.” You paused, dipping once again. “I will paint you with my honey.” My mind drifted into all of the meanings of your words. My mouth filled with drool, instinctively I let it weep out from between my lips. I felt an uncontrollable blush.
 
At that moment I was yours. Nothing else existed, mattered. My eyes were fixed on all that you, your patient artistry in this moment. I could hear your breathing slow and steady. Smell the leather of your trousers. Feel the contrast between the cuffs I wore and the honey covering my nakedness in its sweetness.
 
This is not love. I told myself in my head. I was determined not to surrender, not relinquish that last bit of control I felt that I had left. You had taken everything, better than I could have ever given it to you.
 
It was then that you grabbed my ankles… tipped me backwards. Lowered your lips, tasted my honey.
 
TVS
 
s.