[ The words hardly come out, a desperate whisper caught up in the tangle of their mouths. She's finding it harder to care about causing him pain, the bit of test tube she'd held falling to the ground. She's so focused on hers. The sharp bursts of hurt in her shoulder, the ferocity of his thrusts, the ache of her muscles to keep in position. It's nearly too much.
It's almost too perfect, all that he gives her.
She makes their sounds worse by pressing her hand between her legs, fingers swirling wetly over her clit and drawing out further whimpers and pleas. Because it was more. Always more. Maybe in wanting that, it made her more human.
And now she wants the most. ]
Claim me.
[ That's what she always looked forward to the most, his release more so than hers. It was something physical. Unmistakable. Filthy, perverse--so unlike her who always wanted perfection and neatness and to appear above such things. And most of all, it was a sign of what she'd done, how wanted she was and how much that want could affect someone.
It's so nice to be imperfect. It's so nice to be so overwhelmed she can't tell if she's careening towards another death at his hands. C'est la petite mort, he'd said to her once, and after finding out what it meant, it made sense. It was. And she'd welcome it every time.
Her mouth breaks free of his, unable to be contained anymore. She's doing her best to hold back, to time things right, and it's so painfully hard. But it'll be worth it.
no subject
[ The words hardly come out, a desperate whisper caught up in the tangle of their mouths. She's finding it harder to care about causing him pain, the bit of test tube she'd held falling to the ground. She's so focused on hers. The sharp bursts of hurt in her shoulder, the ferocity of his thrusts, the ache of her muscles to keep in position. It's nearly too much.
It's almost too perfect, all that he gives her.
She makes their sounds worse by pressing her hand between her legs, fingers swirling wetly over her clit and drawing out further whimpers and pleas. Because it was more. Always more. Maybe in wanting that, it made her more human.
And now she wants the most. ]
Claim me.
[ That's what she always looked forward to the most, his release more so than hers. It was something physical. Unmistakable. Filthy, perverse--so unlike her who always wanted perfection and neatness and to appear above such things. And most of all, it was a sign of what she'd done, how wanted she was and how much that want could affect someone.
It's so nice to be imperfect. It's so nice to be so overwhelmed she can't tell if she's careening towards another death at his hands. C'est la petite mort, he'd said to her once, and after finding out what it meant, it made sense. It was. And she'd welcome it every time.
Her mouth breaks free of his, unable to be contained anymore. She's doing her best to hold back, to time things right, and it's so painfully hard. But it'll be worth it.
They can die together. ]