FICTION: JAMES HARTMAN – PET

Pet

He calls me feral, sometimes another name, but feral is my favorite.  Its bi-syllabic rhythm closes my eyes, vibrates my heart and makes me curl inward in warm delight.  Sometimes he rubs his forehead across mine, drawing one light finger below my chin.  Makes me spread my legs, reveal my belly.  All his fingers stretch out over my skin, and I open my mouth in silent squeal.  When I mouth his finger he calls me feral again and instantly I roll over, blink up at him my slow, aching content and lift my rear end in total submission.

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