She tells me things about herself, her voice dreamy, like it’s separated out, but soft. Nothing like a man’s voice, all muscle and bone. A girl’s voice is cool water. It’s softened thighs. It’s press of breasts, like pillows, the smell of crushed clover.
I get lost in the voice. And then the silk of hair, the damp heat of her neck.
And I am hers.
You think that because I’ve bound her that I am Master. You think that because I’ve stuffed her mouth and taped her face, because I have claimed every inch of her skin with rope, because I do whatever I desire, that she is mine.
Watch her. Concentrate upon her hands, the drape of her fingers. See how the ropes increase her, awakening.
And she is lithe. And she is serpentine, her body loose like coils of rope, but stretching, aching, gasping with sex, a cloud of sex, an ocean, a warm wet shore.
Yes, I bind her so tight that she cannot resist. Yes, I cane her, I gather her swollen labia into my fingers. And I sharpen my straight razor, allowing her to watch, allowing those dark, humid eyes to plead for me to stop. But I am so much a slave to her body that I must finish what I’ve begun.
The scrape of razor-sharp steel on skin, on thigh, on labia. Her scent is like a series of cries, each one thicker, harsher, like burial and deep suffocating water.
I am lost.
Clean, pink, fresh-shaven cunt. Swell of her clitoris. Fattened dildo plunged into her hole and tied in place. Vibrator laid upon her wild pussy. She grasps me with the rush of her desire and drags me along behind until we hang at the edge of that steep, wicked precipice.
We plunge. We fall.
And there is always damage. Always wreckage.
But we are caught in the dream of her body. We are floating now, our sudden death passing us by, a repetition of waves, the screaming of the gulls.
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File size: 38.6 MB