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Click hereI want to write.
I want your teeth digging into my neck.
I want your tongue dragging across me, "Wipe that off" forgotten, just the heat of your mouth on that skin, obvious to the world if marked. I want your mark on me. I want to face the problem of hiding your marks tomorrow at work. That feeling not felt in years, the nipple-tight-pussy-wet thrill, in which I make stuttering excuses to cover your handiwork. That tell-tale bruise from your teeth.
It can only be teeth.
Your bite.
Deep
Deep
Deepest,
I feel you. That bite. Dentin meeting dermis.
I want that on paper;
I want it shared.
Documentation
of
    your
      thoughtful
        handiwork.