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September 28, 2022


Shirley Chan

You feel so good, densely packed and heavy on my tongue, pushing my mouth open with your weight. You are sticky with melted sugar that clings to my lips, the corners of my mouth, the surface of my teeth as I sink them into you.

And you yield.

Easing and opening up as you warm in my mouth, I feel the veins of butter that were hardened inside you melt into rivulets that run down my throat. The tight weave of your rich, soft body begins to expand as the moisture from my drool, forgive me, soaks into the pores, the spaces, the nooks, the crannies, the pockets of air forming the lace of your sweet, fragrant bread.

You get stickier.

You hold me, hold onto me, bouncing between my teeth, wafting cinnamon musk into my nostrils, pushing back, giving in slightly to tease and then resist again. I don’t swallow, I open wide to implore you to go deeper inside me, all of me. Slide in, draping your sticky syrupy sweetness as you go.

I am yours.

We are in our own world, my fingers held prisoner by sweating melted sugar swirled with golden brown butter and pungent spice. I am full but do not stop. I take another bite.

This is not hunger for food, but for feeling. I want to feel you crumble in my mouth, your dense, heavy strength softening when you touch me. You taste my mouth. I taste your body. We melt and come together.

I cannot eat anymore, but I do not stop.