I don't bite*, I promise. Nothing like that for me! I can't count the number of times someone's messaged me with an air of trepidation about them, wondering if I'm stuffed with eager player or if I'll be disdainful of an errant message or an unusual kink.

Sure, I might have an unsettling penchant for really enjoying cuddly, loving butt stuff, or a pattern of happy halfling fantasies that crop up again and again. Most of my prompts - okay, half of them - are pulled from song titles, and are just silly little idea nuggets that capture a simple, sexy moment in time. Okay, maybe the other half are thinly veiled cries for help pretentious, thinky smut stories whose movie versions would have Danish directors and a blue filter over the lens.

But that's not intimidating! I don't do the whole chains-and-whips thing, and half the time when I write, I'm half-asleep anyway. So I'm very accommodating to honest mistakes and a few missed semicolons, I promise.

I don't bite*!

*

Well... sometimes I do bite. Gently, still, but sometimes I get this... emptiness, you know? The sort of tingling in my hands that craves touch, that simmers with the repressed need to pull thighs aside and feel a gasp burst from a throat when I slide my fingers around it.

Sometimes that emptiness is in my mouth, and I could just drink you in, in kisses and the slide of teeth and tongue along your skin, the wet pop of a breast between my lips or the tingling graze of a soaked pink slit against my tongue.

There are times when I just want to feel, to grab and pin and kiss and thrust and, sometimes, sometimes...

Sometimes I do bite.