In a darker more beautiful world, I’d fuck your heart right through your chest.
The sad thing is, I think you’re fucking me with, but there is a part of me that wishes you weren’t.
I’m the Master of Self Control.
Are you? One of us needs to be, because I’d cut my breasts open as an invitation, given the chance.
I’m aware. It’s why I keep myself in check.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
Shiver. Hiss. Don’t start something you can’t finish, Daddy. I’ve been ramped up like this for days…
When I put my hands on you next… you will bleed and squeal and cry. And you will hurt… your eyes will roll in the back of your head, and your toes will wiggle… and you might even drown. Pause. And then you will come.
I don’t know who shut off the volume, or when, but all I can hear is the static of the silence, as I watch this thing between us play out like a picture show before the invention of the talkie. Clara Bow’s heyday, here, before my eyes, and I play the helpless ingenue, though not quite as helpless as I enjoy making myself seem.
I don’t know who shut off the volume, but there are no subtitles to this picture. The only words are the ones half-remembered or half-imagined in some half-crazed, erotic stupor. Always half, but never full. Until your mouth is full of my blood. Continue reading →