Crimson Honey Dripper: The Gushing

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Blushing…it begins with a twinge and commences relocation of blood beneath our veil as it openly states our desire. Bamboozling us is its specialty as it tears off our ambiguous masks and informs all of our infatuations. Our cheeks fill with rouge, creating a tepid glow which invariably blows any cover. But when blushing occurs beneath eye-level, should the pulse be concealed deep in your loin, then obscurity is ordinarily assured.

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Take note of your surroundings, attain Intel on nearest exits and any prying eyes which may fall your way. Maybe those inquisitors would be teased by such blatant exhibition, that is your choice to make. It begins with unfastening, loosening of garments and curious feelers sliding between the teeth of your denim. If your lower torso is concealed by a work station then all the better, nobody need know of the moisture forming in your haunch or the thin veil of perspiration on your palms as you delve deeper.

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If panties are your bag then draw them to one side or, better yet, plunge your digit inside yourself, through the thin layer of cloth and allow them to gather your immediate passion within their fabric. Topside, remain po-faced if that helps you to deal with the iniquitous probing going on sub aqua. Push, pull, flick and tug at your centre, bring yourself to the boil, whilst still appearing nonchalant but watch out for signs as there is a point of no return which will make any judgement call far less yours to make.

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Danger brings with it the blackest cherries of desire. For most of us, the notion of getting caught red-handed acts as a potent aphrodisiac and is never more present than when in a public place so use that Intel and drive that well-manicured nail beneath the curtain, into your warm hub and walk the tightrope. Your work will still be there upon completion of this task, the world around you shall not cease spinning. You can however slow the process by taking your eye from the escalating pile in your in-tray and instead focusing on filling your out-tray.

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We are primal creatures, every one of us. Our instinct tells us to eat, sleep and fuck, not to fritter ourselves away on somebody else’s bullshit dream. You may be fortunate enough to be content in your current role. That pleases me, but provides no reason not to insert a second finger and widen your scope for forbidden release. All the while, feel yourself succumb to the delectation you yearn so and trust that. Think of the exercise as stress-relief, no need to squeeze a rubber ball or chew on nicotine replacement gum…just channel your pent-up frustrations into one muscle and allow them to gush.

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Half of our congregation will likely leave us momentarily at this point as the final throes are just too burly to disguise. If you are one of these people, then go and take the pressure off, be my guest. For those still remaining, there is still work afoot. I’m sat in the cubicle adjacent petting my Monster in perfect symmetry so take my lead as I tease every last rivulet of creamy discharge from the gaping jaws of our beasts. When it feels as though the valve is likely to blow, take it down a notch and allow that feeling to pass. Then, as you relax your muscle once more, crank up and bring yourself to the faintest simmer.

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Leave it again but this time remove yourself from the confines of your desk space and go grab yourself a jolt of caffeine or some water from the cooler. Expect the dull ache to persist as your Monster has not yet matured enough to release. Keep it muzzled for a few moments and regroup, you will need any remaining resolve when this fleeting break has come to a close. As you return to your seat and recline one more, inhabit that same dampened patch and reconvene. Remember at all times that you are your own Monster’s keeper and keep it harnessed until it feels as though it will simply implode with delight.

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The silent orgasm. Not all of us would have tried this technique but I would recommend you sample it now. Attempting nonchalance when the Honey has began to drizzle is an endeavor many would baulk at although, the high which comes from stifling your apex moment, is actually considerable. Play with it, tease and test as this is your Monster after all and you know it better than any other. Ultimately it is wired up to your mind but, despite the popular misconception that control is all in your head, it is your body which calls the shots.

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Should you soak through your clothing then simply sit and marinade, allow your sex to flow without restraint at this point as, from the waist up, you’re still hard at work on that pile of memos. Beneath what the eye can discern however, you ache with delight. It is a concept we play out every day of our lives. We wear our poker-faces, shrug shoulders and conceal our hidden Monsters. A beast which lies dormant is still a beast and if there is one thing I have gleaned from the past six months it is that all the madness and sadness we play host to can be channeled into something truly memorable and distinct should we drop our veil some.

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If we are writers then scribe, artists then paint and create, nymphomaniacs then fuck while the cows graze. But if, like Keeper for too long, you are stuck peddling somebody else’s dream and feeling discarded in the process, then take these few moments each day, spark the plugs and feel…as the numbness warns nobody of its manifestation but, once invited, it tends to stay the duration if not warded off. We are a step away from primate, but our posture is compromised by imbeciles cracking their whips to claim our resolve. They bleed us dry daily, for forty hours of our precious lives each week and offer but a faceless banker’s cheque for our troubles.

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It may appear that I’ve murdered the ambiance with my militant stand against non-progress but that is simply not the case. You left the engine running remember, it purrs beneath the hood, inviting any further visitation and all set to pick up from where you left off. Feed it, nourish it and pet your Monster, remember it’s a muscle and treat it as such. It is no crime…a crime would be paying somebody barely over minimum wage to do your legwork while you play Angry Birds in your office space, naked from the waist down yourself and wearing a constricting cock ring just to keep you rigid so you can fill your waste-paper basket. For all the rest of us it is purely some well-earned downtime.

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Read The Nuzzling

 

Sin in someone else’s time,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014

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