Page 30 of Of Poison & Pumpkins
“Wake up to the prickling sensation of a goosebump
Standing on edge awaiting courage to jump …”
Rynn moans softly and my hips instinctively thrust up. The sound she makes travels directly to my dick faster than a shooting arrow.
“Wake up to the rush of air whipping by
Taking a long leap off, finding faith to dive …”
“Elias,” she whimpers, blowing out a long exhale.
Focus. Focus. I command my body to stay still as a statue.
“Wake up to an icy splash of intensity
Suddenly surrounded by foreign territory …”
I can’t concentrate on the rest of his poem; arousal does not describe what’s happening to my body. I want to bathe in Rynn’s delicious sounds and intoxicating scent.
The poets continue to duel, their words stripped bare, heavy emotion in the air, clawing out my heart. The vibe evokes a combination of fear and lust mingled.
I catch a few fleeting words from the poems here and there … “shudder” …. “caress” … “curl” … “seize.”
After who-knows-how long, I wonder if Rynn is still comfortable sitting with her legs stretched wide? I break the rules and lean forward, whispering where I assume her ear might be, “Lean against my chest if you want, Sunflower.”
Surprisingly, she does, and I’d cheer to the heavens if it were allowed. My entire body grows hot with her nearer. Tingling pleasure floods my veins and my groin desperately needs the friction of her against me. But I don’t give in. Don’t move. Even though my hands ache to explore.
Her chest rises and falls fast as she presses against me, thumping chaotically, threatening to explode from her chest. Just like mine.
Another gong chimes. Lights flash on behind my blindfold and I cringe, blinking away the abrupt change. They go off again. On. Off. On. Another chime, but this time it dings three times.
When Rynn’s body finally slumps, resting against me, I know it’s over. Half of my brain wants more, unsure how long the experience was, and the other half of me is grateful for the freedom.
A fresh wave of strong incense blows through the room, washing over me in a fog of tranquility.
The hostess’s voice whispers near my ear, “Thank you for joining Raven Slam. We hope the poems introduced you to something new. Please enjoy the rest of your meal in the light.”
My blindfold is peeled off and a pair of hazel eyes, red rimmed, gaze back at me. The tears trickling down her cheeks are a punch to the gut. My dick goes limp in a single breath and every new detail of the room in my peripherals turns fuzzy.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Why are you crying?” I search her expression. “What do you need?”
Rynn leans forward again, resting her chin on my shoulder as her body shakes softly. I rub her back with my free hand, soft strokes up and down until her breathing slows. Once she no longer trembles, I survey the scene.
Our red, oversized chair sits in the middle of a small room without windows, among a sea of other mismatched furniture. Some are wooden, some are soft couches or benches. About twenty other people are seated, half paired with someone, half not, yet all are cuffed in some way. Colorful murals decorate the walls and there is no shortage of plants draped on every possible surface. A little stage in the middle of the room sits empty, but the far corner holds staff members who dip behind a bar, full of liquor on the shelves.
Rynn sniffs, then abruptly rises from my lap, standing next to me. “I can’t remember the last time I cried.”
“It’s fine. I get it. That was … intense.”
She chuckles and slashes a finger under her eye to fix her makeup. “I don’t think your body had the same reaction as mine.”
“You’re the one who picked one chair.”
“That I did,” she says, finally smiling a little. “I was … curious.”
“So, are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?” I ask cautiously.
“Even if I did, I couldn’t explain it. I don’t know why I got emotional.”
