Morning Dew

I often wonder at the simplicity of life back when there was little else except the exploration of a singular passion. When the sole guiding force of one's intellect was the constant striving for perfection in a single pursuit.

The constant need to innovate and perfect a craft was of course rooted in the need to survive, but would it not be true also to say that one of the greatest pleasures is one of quiet, content, confident, consummate professionalism?

one of these pursuits that have always fascinated me is the art of beekeeping. Honey has been a fixture of my childhood and far into my adult years. And I have always loved the things that honey can do. Candles and other things from the wax, Mead, that wonderful fermented concoction distilled from honey, Remedies, recipes, All of the different flavors that honey could achieve when the bees sampled nectar from as many different plants...

Its a wonderfully symbiotic relationship. From the flowers to the bees, the bees to the keepers who house and provide for them, and so on.

It reminds me of the symbiosis her and I share. The give and take, the imperturbable cycle of balance and imbalance. The controlled chaos of pure, primal expression, and the enduring growth of unfettered intimacy.

The wondrous circulature of this process is always worthy of ponderous appreciation. I can imagine the already busy denizens of the nearby apiary being visible in the garden outside the window as you lay naked in the first warm rays of morning sunlight. Broken shadows from the window sill spilling dappled perfection across your skin.

Your collar still clings to your neck from the night before. I watch you stir slightly and the heavy metal ring affixed to the front of the leather band clinks heavily. The wonderfully satisfying sight of you; collared, sated, languishing, reaches the deepest core of me. Even amongst the dark and roiling storm clouds of pure lust and desire, the moment of tender recollection is not something I can bear to ignore. The wonderful enveloping sense of ownership, protection, guidance. Its a call to see you for what you are, stripped of everything but the most primal of impulses. Soft, delicate, mine.

Mine.

The tenderness is still there, but the need has returned, lazily stirring from its temporary rest in the pit of my stomach. that slow, trickle of desire suddenly lances; sharp, demanding, through my body. Compelling me to lay claim.

Its time to wake, Kitten.

The small jar of honey rests on the breakfast tray, glass earthenware glimmering at the edges as it warms under the glow of the rising sun. my fingers slowly caress the outer curve of your thigh. The lissome murmur that escapes your lips is part questioning, part contentment.

I have unspoken answers for both, little girl.

the deep amber liquid rolls within the small glass vial as I lift it from the tray, pure warmth, sweetness, embodied. The round dipper rests at the bottom, and my fingers heavily lift your thighs apart, eliciting a gasp at the unexpected force. You quickly open your eyes with wonderment, and I gaze at your body as you respond so instantly with my intent, flushed, already moistening at the anticipated contact.

I lift the dipper from the smooth, round vial, watching your eyes as they follow the progress of the first languorous dollop of honey to fall from the ribbed dipper.

My fingers twirl the dipper, lightly depositing a droplet of honey on the tip of the index finger of my opposite hand. reaching out, I grip your chin lightly between my other fingers, beckoning your tongue from behind your teeth.

You comply easily, snaking your tongue out to swirl over the golden prize at the end of my finger. Your eyes, still so wonderfully alight with curiosity, never leave mine as you lap at my fingertip.

I allow you to clean away the last of the honey before lowing my hand to your neck. My finger loops into the metal ring of your collar, tugging once, with purpose.

the trained, engrained, inexorable response is instant, and powerful.

you arch your back, spreading your arms, your legs, exposing yourself to me perfectly.

The dipper now hovers above the nape of your neck, depositing a tiny round, droplet of honey on your skin.

I lean over you, and you know to remain perfectly motionless and quiet. You already know what punishments a sound or a tremor will bring. You feel the dipper plant light, liquid kisses on your skin, every time leaving small, golden dewdrops of honey on your body.

You begin to lose track of them all, your nipples of course, your chin, the inside of your wrist, your thighs...

You almost lose your poise the moment the dipper rests on your already swollen clit. Even the expectation hadn't readied you for the sensation and for a moment my eyes cast a warning glance to yours. You steady yourself, biting your lip to stifle the whimper clawing at the back of your throat.

After what seems like an eternity, I place the dipper back into the honey jar, placing it back in its spot on the breakfast tray.

your body is burning, both with desire and with the strain of holding the pose for so long.

I look at you, a living confection. The treasure hunt for my senses. Prepared, eager. Your cunt is already gushing with anticipation, your own honey trickling down your skin, wetting the sheets beneath with your need. The desperate rise and fall of your chest betraying your otherwise still form.

You wonder how many of those wonderful little dewdrops i have placed on your skin. How could I possibly remember to find them all?....

Wonderfully naive, little girl....

Breakfast is served.