Cade Posted yesterday at 09:25 AM (edited) When she looks up at me, I see begging in her eyes. Certainly, fëär and frustration twists her face, released in screams and expletives that warn of her tender ferocity. Dark mascara stains her cheeks, shimmering proof of the suffering she endured. Quivering lip, ruddy with life, struggling silently to speak her secret. But I already know. I grip her mind in my hand with a fistful of hair at the base of her scalp; I swear, when I shake her head I hear her brains rattle. With this solitary and deliberate hold, I control how high or low she kneels, I create the burning agony in her thighs, I allow her the lifeline of my intense touch. It is in flesh she shows her appreciation for that blissful vacancy in her head I offer like some opiate - her addiction: my intention. As if floating on trust, I lean her body backwards to scrutinize my skill cascading her form. Her arms stay limp at her sides, freed from any sense of modesty and too aware I'd only make any attempt to obfuscäte my gaze a woeful regret. Even as I sharply pinch a nipple to shift her bruised breasts for my perusal, she doesn't flinch. Despite tracing the welts striping her torso with my fingernail, she doesn't pull away. Why would she need to? She has become a product of my cruel passion. SENSATION! I make her pretty. SENSATION! She feels alive again. SENSATION! I lick the taste of her from my knuckles. Panting, I give her but a moment to catch her breath before demanding her attention yet again by that fistful of hair. When she looks up at me, I see begging in her eyes. Now, she's ready to let slip that secret. But I already know. Only one word leaves her lips. “More.” Edited yesterday at 09:28 AM by Cade
Recommended Posts