Wearing a groove in the floor.
Pacing, to and fro. The oak boards softly creaking under your bare feet.
Waiting.
On her. On him.
On yourself–for you seek liberation.
*
Settling on your knees, watching.
Eyes full of her. Of him.
Ears burning at the stream of consciousness pouring from her chapped and slightly bruised lips.
Smelling the tang of their mingled sweat, being pressed into your sheets.
Yet you are silent, except for your breath. So heavy it has a weight of its own.
*
Your moment arrives.
They call to you indirectly, as he bucks and jerks in her, his ass flexing with each spurt as he screws his eyes shut with relief.
She is the receptacle.
She receives.
She…
*
Offering to you. You approach the tabernacle of her well-fucked cunt.
Pausing there, all your anger dissipates. Your frustration at waiting.
Your stubborn refusal to see her guiding you by denying your instantly.
Eager, grateful, humble–you place your hands on her thighs, muscles tired from gripping his waist.
*
Lick.
Lick.
The saltiness.
Taste.
Taste.
Her juices.
Savor.
Savor.
Your place. Less than a tissue to be discarded.
*
After lapping away every bit of them -his nut, her pussy juices-you feel your breath.
Your breath. Lighter, barely discernible. Floating, like your heart in your breast.
Drop your forehead, rest your cheek against the velvet of her smooth thigh.
In the quiet, a still life of her, him, you.
Dream.
Dream.
Of the next time she lets you worship.
