Is that a…curling iron burn?

Is that a…curling iron burn?

Oh, the good old days of necking when we weren’t supposed to, and that deliciousness, tenth next day realizing that you’ll have to wear a high-neck collar or a scarf to school, because you got a hickey.

Hickeys are one of those love-them, thrilled by them, hate them sorts of things.

I HATED getting them when I didn’t want them, and the hassle of hiding them for however long it took for them to go away.

I HATED the brand another put on my body, marking me, however temporarily.

I also secretly thrilled at the reminder of the illicit pleasure we took with each other, and the getting of them.

Now, I just love hickeys.

Consensual hickeys, hidden in places others will NOT see them, unless they are intimate with me, in which case, I’ll show them off proudly.

And I love giving them.

Seeing MY love marks on another’s flesh.

Not unlike the bruises from a paddling, or the flush and glassy eyes from a good orgasm.

MY MARKS.

In collaboration and consent, of course.

But MINE.

On them.

And theirs on me, once in a while. As a reminder of deep passion that is not slaked at the skin level.

But not above my neckline, please and thank you.

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