Meat artist

Release of the last of my short stories, read by myself. A raw text, served just right, for gourmets in search of strong sensations.
Here it is!
Professional sound recording and mixing. Photo: evening reading behind the microphone, in the Salon Incivil next to the Cruel Boudoir...

Extract: I kiss Tess hard before spitting into her forehead. My spit rolls down her nose as, tongue outstretched, she tries to catch it like the tassel on the merry-go-round. Between our skins, her dress is an intruder. I strip her of it so that she can emerge, drenched in the powder pink of her camisole. Camisole, a double-edged word that sharpens my cruel tickles. Not a millimeter of my captive escapes my diligence. Scarlet and sweaty, she giggles and wiggles, torn between the equal need to subjugate herself and to escape me, a thorny dilemma that makes me sing to her.

«Dance, my sweet, dance, my hard, dance, my thing, you're so touching when you dance for me, just for ME!»