Breakfast Slow – Thirteenth Anniversary

I wake to the smell of hot buttermilk biscuits.
I open my eyes and see black silk.
A blindfold.
“Open your mouth,” you say.
A piece of warm biscuit on my lips, my tongue.
I chew slowly, tasting it.
Dribbles of butter on my lips, my chin.
I lick them off.
Your finger, dipped in jelly.
Grape jelly, you pull your finger back out.
Another finger. Strawberry. Blackberry.
Another piece of biscuit.
Then, a dribble of gravy.
HOT! It’s hot!
You dribble it down my chin, my neck, my chest. Burning.
I tug at the ropes, as you laugh.

4 thoughts on “Breakfast Slow – Thirteenth Anniversary”

  1. I hear mentions of iron monkeys, etc. What is it. What does it mean? Is it worth money? Where can I read about this? Thank you.

  2. Congrats on 13 years of stories! Was it Edison who said that genius was 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration? It takes inspiration to make a good story, but surely a lot of perspiration to do so every day for 13 years. Keeping sweating!

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