When I was a child I loved to gorge myself on Easter Eggs.
Chocolate has lost its lustre.
But my hunger remains.
Eggs now come on a small chain, linked together.
Made of chrome, they catch the candle light.
They feel cold to the touch, at first.
But they soon warm up.
I hate fidgeting.
But I have rope.
Wrists bind easily to bed posts.
On your knees, close your eyes.
This is all about you.
Eggs have a home.
But like any nest, it must be prepared.
Relax, beg, want.
The first one slides in.
It feels icy.
Two, three, four.
Just the chain remains, swaying from you.
A tongue on your clit.
One by one as you pulse.
You beg me never to stop.
We begin, again.