When I’m alone at night I can hear your name whimper out of the edge of the glass as it swipes across my lips. It only happens when it’s late and I’m weak and the only thing left of the day is an empty stomach of bourbon. It happens as I light a cigarette I dug out of the ashtray with your lipstick on it. That’s the moment. The witching hour.
It’s your true name that I hear: the sound you cry when you are clawing at the floorboards, bucking with your high heels, with your hands twisting by your side. When, next to the bookshelf, your legs are in the air and a lock of hair is pinned to your lip. With your dress caught around your waist and your bra pulled down and your eyes glaring back over your shoulder—it’s the sound you scream out as you exhale a hundred short breaths of “oh fuck” with one arm behind your back and the floor wet with sweat.
That’s the name that summons you, called three times and crossed with whiskey.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/2u252i/bulleit_rituals