needlessly detailed description of giving head to henry ahead, so beware. pathetically unnecessary, but alas. to whom it may concern:
i woke up and developed a simple thought — an urge even — to feel henry's vein(s) on my tongue, and i'm sure you can imagine what kind. picture this: in the middle of going down on him, you abruptly halt, maybe overwhelmed or merely intent on catching him off-guard for once; he's heavy and ardent in your mouth, and then you get a better sense of it upon your tongue — the slightly more pliable unevenness that trembles with each accelerated beat of his heart, a prominently plump vein. thereby, you feel his life and his passion and his fervor rushing through him so directly, so intimately... right there upon your tongue... i cannot. i cannot do this today...
and how he, upon becoming puzzled with your inertia, would carefully place a large, warm palm upon the crown of your head... not particularly as a sort of force to spur you on, but more as a supportive gesture... with the gentle, yet firm words “are you all right?” descending from his lips from above... how you would keep the secret of having enjoyed this brief moment of torpor so grandly it only bestowed you with more motivation to keep going with more zeal, more ardor to it... yes, oh yes. pleeease.