I picked option one,
taught Brandon how to use his mouth.
A Boy can’t break me if he never learns how I want to come apart.
But not all men can be trained.
Some have more ego than brain,
too busy trying to prove they’re the man
before listening to a woman.
Brandon’s licking deep and circling slow.
One long drag up the middle,
then breathing my clit into his mouth.
He sucks slow,
slides down,
same path,
dirtier each time.
His green eyes lift to mine?—
ruined, glazed, drowned in devoutness.
The warm crawl of his tongue is cruel,
a sweet, slow rake across every nerve.
A thousand tiny tremors dance beneath my skin, begging to break open.
Another long, hungry lick, and
my breath shudders on a broken moan.
My eyes close, my head falling to the side.
And when I open my eyes again,
they land on Ben,
standing at his window,
chest bare, sweatpants hanging low.
Every muscle's stiff?—
caught in a freeze-frame?—
as he watches from the other side of the glass.
All Brooklyn-stare and bite without brain.
