Lust

Originally Posted: 4/20/09

I want to strike your flesh with leather, leave it bruised and sore and sweet. I want to batter you and smother you, while you're chained. I want you until your helpless, I want you when I want you. Otherwise, you're nothing more than a plaything to me. A doll, a toy, something to be coveted and then left alone.


I want you whimpering while your body heats up, crying out when I force the cold inside you. I want your toes curled, your lips bitten, your muscles straining against bonds they could never hope to break. Ultimately, I want you enslaved to my whims, by your own volition or by force. It makes no difference. I'm bigger and stronger and I own you.


I'm fantasizing about your lips, glistening with tiny droplets of saliva. How they'd feel when I pry them open, push myself past them, cut the flow of air to your lungs off. The way your eyes roll back when the blood hungers for oxygen, the way you constrict about me like some kind of serpent. And then there are your breasts, bright red with welts the size of my knuckles, the shape of twined leather. The nipples stand erect, sore and hypersensitive, beacons for my gnashing teeth. The supple flesh yields to my brutality, something soft and something fearsome.


And then I'll find the center, take up root and make a home. I'll thrash and beat and split you, tease you, torment you. Not because I want to, but because I know I can. Fingernails raking deep red lines across the broad expanse of skin. Your eyes are deep pools of boiling liquid.


Somewhere there's a climax. One I prevent, one I seize you from the brink of only to cast you haphazardly over the edge. I'll watch you fall from that pinnacle, writhing in animalistic rage, shrieking and thrashing like an uncaged beast, until I allow it to subside. Not because I want to.


Because I can.


You want it, come get it,
S.R.