DEIMOS
Lured and lured and lured, to take, to unravel – half of him wanted to reduce her to nothing but shudders and moans, to a chaotic shamble of pleasure and contortions, veiled and shrouded in wanton, yearning, longing persistence. No masks, no veils, no semblance of anything but their temptation, the other portions to him intending to pull and draw her along until she was begging, pleading, aching, constantly on the edge, requiring only the slightest touch to send her singing, to send her spiraling. At her shiver, he growled, persisted, pursued, a wolfish rapture in his complete, utter irreverence, closer and closer while her fingers entangled in his locks, while he was just as possessed and consumed. Devoured; giving and granting, chasing and willing.
He laughed into her skin, billowing breaths meant to instigate another shudder, another ripple, another outcry of protest; hips bucking towards his, her intentions abundantly clear, and his patiently stoking, bringing to flame, kindling, rousing, stimulating, coaxing her over and over. Her moan, merely an extension of some syllables, wasn’t enough; he chased it down, down, down, one hand braced against the back of the tub, one hand reached down to the small of her back, large palm and span intending to raise her breasts slightly above the water, where nipples peaked and peeked. There his head bowed, like a fervent, illustrious prayer (but he was seditious, he was a rebel, a revolution, a tirade), mouth gliding over the mounds, tongue granting the only worship he’d ever provide another living, breathing soul.
The Sword craved his name mewled from her lips, choral oeuvres and opuses on soft sighs, pants, and moans, even before, before, before over and over, and then eternally thereafter. Longed to hear it again, in the spaces in between, amongst the domed water, amidst smoke and fumes and plumes; mean in his torment, in his pleasure, in his chuckles, tongue beginning its generous slide down her sternum, following paths to her navel. “Maybe you deserve it,” echoed between teeth and tongue, on a grating hiss, on a ferocious rumble.
He laughed into her skin, billowing breaths meant to instigate another shudder, another ripple, another outcry of protest; hips bucking towards his, her intentions abundantly clear, and his patiently stoking, bringing to flame, kindling, rousing, stimulating, coaxing her over and over. Her moan, merely an extension of some syllables, wasn’t enough; he chased it down, down, down, one hand braced against the back of the tub, one hand reached down to the small of her back, large palm and span intending to raise her breasts slightly above the water, where nipples peaked and peeked. There his head bowed, like a fervent, illustrious prayer (but he was seditious, he was a rebel, a revolution, a tirade), mouth gliding over the mounds, tongue granting the only worship he’d ever provide another living, breathing soul.
The Sword craved his name mewled from her lips, choral oeuvres and opuses on soft sighs, pants, and moans, even before, before, before over and over, and then eternally thereafter. Longed to hear it again, in the spaces in between, amongst the domed water, amidst smoke and fumes and plumes; mean in his torment, in his pleasure, in his chuckles, tongue beginning its generous slide down her sternum, following paths to her navel. “Maybe you deserve it,” echoed between teeth and tongue, on a grating hiss, on a ferocious rumble.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
