Small, White Hands

Lurching forward to initiate attraction
Under the guise of an innocent accident,
Small, white hands rise to meet his heavy frame,
They stumble, backward, and fall to the floor.
Lying stunned, the weight suffocates, she can’t move,
His breath bears down upon her exposed flesh –
Her neck tense, eyes closed, lips a quiver,
Waiting, waiting for something to happen,
Repulsed and attracted,
Defeated, yet her hands remain firm against his broad chest,
Pressure applied to assert some distance.
Slowly he backs up, making sure to get as close as possible,
To smell her as he rises; torn by lust and decency,
Desire colours his eyes – she can feel it – as the weight is relieved off her frame,
And her small white hands drop to her stomach,
Smooth down her dress, she slows her breathing,
Looks with death toward the man who dared be so bold, so brazen.
People no longer pay attention; they’re busy drinking and losing themselves
In dreary chatter, the world revolves around the two protagonists,
Nothing else exists, no one else is real.
Fantasy begins to lure both, separate desires, bound together in a dance,
Electricity, switches on, open gates, attraction taking over –
Every part of her is pulsing, wanting, hating, feeling the power of her sex,
Devouring him from a distance – moist lips, tongue circling teeth,
Eyes slashing wounds into his masculinity, opening him up,
Her hands creep lower, her abdomen gently rising, over the crest, down her thighs, and back up between her legs – she’s warm, her skin burning.
He eyes her neck, arched to the right, the muscles tense,
The tendons exposed through her perfect skin; he could rip it out, and drink the Gushing blood that flowed forth;
Her eyes are killing him, his out of his body – he watches,
Follows her small white hands as they touch and stroke;
Her nipples hardened – in his mouth they would be buttons,
Pressed, pinched, pulled, to excite and cause mild pain – her ankles, her feet, so Delicate, perfect, he wants all of her, soaking, pulsing, needing him – he could tear Her apart, and put her back together, like a seamstress.
She can see his bulging groin – the fingers of her small white hands pull at her panties, she exposes a breast and kneads it,
pinches her nipple as she feels her own softness grow ripe and wet with desire – not for cock, but for blood, to hold him at bay and see pain, the little boy writhe in desperation for her,
To be inside her – she bites her bottom lip, she drips, she digs, nails into thighs,
And silently screams as skin is broken –
she could be anyone, no one, she has no name no recognisable features, just her body and desires, free of any guilt, shame or expectation – she tastes her blood, she opens her self up, to the world, exposing her complete self knowing –
He is no more, a phantom a former self, he has her in the palm of his hand,
She does his will without words spoken.
He moves behind her and kneels, slides his hands down the length of her body to the hem of her dress and removes it.
He can smell her, his animal smells her, needs her, his nose quivers with excitement.
He cups her head in his hands and arches her neck,
He devours it, bites it, sucks it in, feels her jugular beating beneath his grasp –
Oh to tear flesh and drink her in –
He closes around her mouth, she moves beneath him, a small, white hand leads his to her stomach, and down, her legs part gently, he feels her sex,
So wet and ripe, he glides over her, up and down,
She makes him betray his good boy pressure, forces him inside her,
To rub her as their tongues dart around each other, lash each other –
Both strapped to the rack of passion and being whipped by faceless persecutors.
Hunger leads them on; he has a breast completely in his mouth,
his fingers still playing with her pussy, purring so loudly, she pushes his head down, she wants him to lap her, to clean her, to ravish her –
he cleans her wound first, the blood sending shivers down his spine, then with his hands beneath her buttocks, he raises her up, and eats her –
He feels her gush; she tastes like strong liquor, scented, his giddy,
And she collapses from him – her hands, small and white, tear off his clothes,
She bites him, makes him bleed, he kneels, a subject, objectified and loving it,
She gnaws and grinds into his flesh, his screams completely unheard –
He is large, a great stamen, she admires it,
Holds it in her hands, she licks it, meticulously, methodically,
This, like her neck, beats with a heart of its own, and she wants it,
She sucks, long, squeezing his groin, biting when he tries to stop her,
He has her hair, is frightened, but the pleasure is too much, he can’t stop her,
She wants his liquid, his seed, to flow – he leans back,
She sucks quicker, longer, licking, pulling,
He explodes and she smiles, groaning with his pleasure,
His weakness, her power – she pushes him down, slides on top of him;
She will dictate this game –
Her pussy opens willingly, and he enters her fully,
she slides off, and on, each entrance a shot of adrenalin, an intoxicating rush of blood to the head, she rides him to her climax, thumping down on him,
Her nails making easy work of the flesh on his chest, his hands grip hers –
So fragile, small, white, so devastatingly brutal –
He is so deep, and soaked in her sex; he is lost and found –
As she opens her mouth, her skin crawls, and exits her body in pure ecstasy, he off loading inside, his seed – it’s religious,
Spiritual, cleansing, sordid, debauched, pure and revolting,
The mixture of fluid, the sweating bodies, limp and torn,
To be punished and punish,
To revile and elevate through desire,
To meet and extol the virtues of passion, lust and greed,
To bleed and be born again; to find in another, freedom of expression.
She sits, quietly; he watches, playfully, her hands,
Her small, white hands remove knots from her hair.

Small, White Hands

twistedson

Joined November 2007

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  • tricky1
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