Midnight basking in the light pathway Your nape a nesting ground to later swallow The curl of fingers and toes folded 9 years in the making Ritualistic assurance
Spilt Milk is a place where confessions go when they die. It's the place where the candles never get blown out. Where the stocking is worshiped and the heel of the foot is adored. The cradle of old flames and new tastings. This is my collection of erotica. Old, new and blue. Bon appetite.