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I like the way she says yes....

Sometimes she will say yes very softly, on an angel's wings. She will slowly look away, face the painting on the wall or the petals in the bowl, listen to the twin promises of fear and ecstasy, then she will look back at me with total acceptance, no heavy resignation or fake petulance, she will look back straight and deep in my soul and she will breathe, yes.

I will hold her chin in the palm of my hand, I will drink her fresh baby breath, bring her close to me, her heartbeat a little faster, her heat a little sharper, nipple already blooming against the palm of my hand, her breast plump and heavy like ripe mango, I will squeeze her against me so that she feels my hunger, my forceful need to bite into her antelope flesh.

I will lick the back of her neck, inhale deep the promise of sweat in her hair, pull her nipple a little harder. Some times she will say yes with her mouth shut open, the gag fully stretching her lips, she will simply nod to the strict leather corset that will mold her into a plentiful sacrifice, to the tight ropes that will better force her to offer herself, to the whip that will help her sing new strange songs she never knew she could compose, she will says yes with her eyes in my eyes and I will taste everyone of her sighs, every sharp note of pain, every whimper of joy.

She will say yes by the tones of her skin, the sudden waves of red across the dunes of her belly or the inside of her thighs as she opens to receive my fingers, as she arches back to present me with the peachy fruit of her ass, she will say yes with musky releases of sweat when the pleasure is so strong that words are not good enough. She will say yes by carefully kneeling on the burgundy carpet, fragrant like an arum lily under the sun of July, place her mouth where my heat wants release, she will say yes by turning her head as I approach the bed where she is spread wide, she will say yes and yes again in her slow moans, her tight motions, without thinking anymore, her yes panting around my lips and my fingers, buckling against the ropes, grunting against my dick, each surprised whisper a thank you, each muffled scream an encouragement, each release a testimonial.

I like the way she says yes. The way she trusts me to play with her, to travel with her to places where joy is a rich blue note with a deep low pitch that travels every moist nerve ending, she is the giant kite with dragon wings, I am the rope that lets her rise and play and that safely brings her back. She is my music and my instrument. I love her.

i have had this for some time, but just re-read it and remembered how much i loved it.


don't fear death
melissa muses (or maia, you choose)


wandering does not make you a "gypsy."
why would you call yourself
after those who have no home?
long skirts and hoop earrings
do not make you a "gypsy."
why do you call yourself after
those who have no clothes?

"gypsy" is pejorative. please don't perpetuate the stereotype. educate yourself on what it really means to be a "gypsy" in this world.

Who are the Roma?

Decade of Roma Inclusion

Dženo Association

European Roma Rights Centre

Roma Balkans

Roma National Congress

Romani World



Rroma Media Network

Soros Roma Initiatives

Studii Romani

The European Union and Roma

The Patrin Webjournal: Romani Culture and History

Voice of Roma
World Bank Roma Initiatives

Have a Happy Day! :)

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