It's evening after the day before, the day we spent lazing about, walking on the local paths, talking, doing all the normal things normal people normally do, only little glances, little touches that passed between us a reminder of what'd been happening, what was going to happen again, soon, because that's what we are here for, because this is the time we have, all the time we have and the only time we will ever have.
And now you are collared again, standing up, and I am standing behind you, running the fingers of my left hand along the marks I've made on your back, now healing; my right one reaching round to my cock, half filled and warm in my grip.
I still don't know what it is, this thing that makes my breathing pick up instantly when I touch the dark pink tracks glowing under my fingertips. I still don't know what it is that makes me gasp with the desire to curve my fingers and scrape the nails along the lines of pain, move my face closer and touch them with my lips, swelling to meet the inflamed welts, taste your skin on my tongue and graze it with my teeth, close them tighter and tighter until the caress morphs, imperceptibly, into a bite.
But it doesn't matter. I don't need a name for it. It's better without definitions and categorisations. It's better just skin deep. Moan deep.
And you do moan, the sound of it making me shiver, a sound that invokes pain, and pleasure, and longing, yet doesn't originate from the space between the three but layers them in one twisted tangle, thick and growly, travelling straight down my back, to that place at the base of my spine glowing with red coals, and all I want is more of it, all over my skin and deep inside my cunt.
I want to own it. That sound, and everything it stands for. I want to learn you, learn you well enough so I can take it out its hiding place any time I want it.
I want to own you, not just your pain but your need and longing and your pleasure, so I can own that sound and own, truly, that feeling on my lips, and that tension in my fingers, and those red glowing coals at the root of my body that burn brighter and hotter every time you moan when I touch you.
You have let me do so many things to you now that we are almost there. Every time I felt you were ready, I was right. And I wonder, again, if you are ready, for this one.
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