TW Bratty prey: I can’t stop

August 27

**Trigger Warning** Reason: Knife Play

I can’t stop. Every smirk, every teasing glance, every bratty refusal is a blade I twist in him, a dare I love giving. I want him feral—I need him desperate, clawing, consumed by obsession—and I want to see it ignite, burning him up as he chases me. My green eyes flash with mischief, hunger, and a raw need, and I let him see every emotion, every twitch of my lips, every shiver of my body.

And then—he snaps. Hands grip me, restraints bite deep, my body no longer mine, pinned exactly where he wants. I tremble, moaning, whimpering, gasping, my face a storm of craving and f3ar, surrender and defiance all at once.

The punishment begins. Denial, repeated orgasms, each one tearing me apart and yanking me back, over and over, until my body shakes uncontrollably. And the knife—the cold, hard handle pressed inside me—makes every nerve fire, ice and fire fusing into something deliciously unbearable. I can’t hide it: my wide green eyes, my trembling lips, my soaking pussy, quivering body show every flicker of my desperation and craving.

I love this. I love torturing him, making him snap, making him feral, making him mine. Every gasp he gives me, every growl, every twitch of his obsession—it feeds me. I’m lost in it, addicted, shaking, begging in ways I can’t speak, screaming in ways he can hear. My body writhes, craving more even as it’s undone, my mind split between *** and ecstasy, rebellion and surrender.

I’m undone. I’m his. I made him feral, I made him hunger, and I live for every second he chases me, consumes me, ruins me, and drags me further into the edge I crave. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.