“I love being covered in your spit” he urges, as my tongue runs again from neck to chin to face in thick, hungry laps. Ours are tongues of trade for the other: heavy, shared things in pursuit of body capital.
A helpless foal, ululating under the might of my crested mouth; not mawkish but on full and brazen display, a rare-earth element laid out on a tridentate pedestal.
The tongue is mightier than the sword for these slaughters of world-destroying.