The white shirt whispers secrets low,
Of curves and shadows, soft aglow.
A hint of blush, a tender plea,
For lips to find what eyes can't see.
Red paint upon a whispered vow,
Invites a touch, right here and now.
A promise held in crimson bright,
A burning ember in the night.
Dark lines frame a gaze so deep,
A siren's call that lulls to sleep.
A hunger stirs, a wicked game,
Where souls are lost and hearts aflame.
No words exist to paint the sight,
Of fabric clinging, dark and tight.
A silent language, bold and bare,
A challenge whispered on the air.
Her voice, a flame that dances high,
Demands surrender, makes you sigh.
A circus trick, a burning grace,
Leaving ashes in its place.
I knelt, compelled by burning need,
To beg for pain, to plant the seed.
No choice, perhaps, or maybe yes,
To taste the fire, to confess.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 8:49 PM UTC
The white shirt whispers secrets low,
Of curves and shadows, soft aglow.
A hint of blush, a tender plea,
For lips to find what eyes can't see.
Red paint upon a whispered vow,
Invites a touch, right here and now.
A promise held in crimson bright,
A burning ember in the night.
Dark lines frame a gaze so deep,
A siren's call that lulls to sleep.
A hunger stirs, a wicked game,
Where souls are lost and hearts aflame.
No words exist to paint the sight,
Of fabric clinging, dark and tight.
A silent language, bold and bare,
A challenge whispered on the air.
Her voice, a flame that dances high,
Demands surrender, makes you sigh.
A circus trick, a burning grace,
Leaving ashes in its place.
I knelt, compelled by burning need,
To beg for pain, to plant the seed.
No choice, perhaps, or maybe yes,
To taste the fire, to confess.
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