I can tell that he is trying to hide something but it isn’t going to work. He can’t. The truth comes out in his addiction and I’m a part of them.
For instance; when he orgasms his complexion gradients into a panicked eggshell merged with rageful scarlet. I watch the anxious composure of my lover, companion, guardian melt away and turn into swelling vice.
And when he is trying to hold back he claws into my back. I feel the stingy warm sensation, my masochist is fucked just right, but my intellect doesn’t skip this beat.
And my ear is placed right in between his lip and throat where I observe his exclamations as they slither up his diaphragm and easily escape out of his expanded mouth into my ear. I hear a crescendo of the typical grunts and moans but also that drown out booming growl.
Sublimity. Sublime. Sub-lime. The word is thick like molasses. When we kiss I’m doing something. My tongue rolls around it, my spit absorbs it, and my mouth tries to transfer to him the intrigue, beauty, and hope that swirls and swells, like the famous tornado filled with wreckage, fairy tales, and memories, inside of me.
I wonder if he really thought that I am not aware of this; my foolishness only stretches so far. Not only am I aware but I’m obsessed. Ritually I whisper, who is he, when his cock fills my mouth, my lip glosses in cum, and my senses are enlightened with a moment of honesty.