Concealed.

Frustrate my mind predicting the best of reactions, hoping it would strike my expectations. I lay. Dreaming. Mouths, tongues, tits. Bass rarely carrying me away in tunes like this, but the next burns passion for my flesh, dancing from the inside out. Put the witch under the sun, as she ignites, then burst forth from the light.

Breathe. 

Lick. Taste. Suck. 

A cup that runs overflow with red. Loud and distasteful, disgraceful, in disdain. 

Patiently waiting for the spell to break.