It’s hard to breathe. The air is imperceptibly icy, and it pushes
through with a perplexing difficulty similar to when your neck swells under the
angry grasp of a lover’s hand. You
silently agree to suffocate as he rams his dick inside you, clogging your every
orifice with his flesh and resentment and the stench of his lust.
It’s hard to breathe, but her flesh is
clean and expectant and wrapped in a Japanese yukata that holds secrets of her most carnal nightmares. She is used to imprisoning her desires, which
often turn into a thick, sticky sap hidden behind the bulging lips of her pussy. She is used to gliding her fingers between
them when she thinks of him. But she
never touches him, and her gaze is controlled.
When she does look at him, there is a changeability in his eyes that is
both arousing and disorienting. He looks
different every time, and her innate desire to control everything is defeated
just by this fact. The boyish innocence
about him is an illusion. She knows this
because he is forever distant despite her soft attempts to draw him closer. And even though she is patient, she is not
used to waiting. His relentless distance
is what causes her to feel embarrassment every time her fingers circle her clit
and she pictures the sharpness of his frame stabbing her from every angle. He is tall, still (so still he threatens to
be volatile) and terrifying (even though his smiles live somewhere between
cotton candy and the smell of virgin choir boys).
She feels sick with want, the sap inside of
her spilling out against her will. She
is sick that she cannot pull his hair, and that the smell of his sweating torso
on her tongue is unknown. She is sick
that she cannot hurt his skin with the edge of her teeth and make him cry
something out that would indicate her victory.
She is sick that his lips always seem raw and oppressive and too far
from her breasts. She is sick that she
cannot test his strength, that his words are immaculate, that his eyes are
always changing.
She is sick and starving for him to come
and finish what is left of her. She
waits for him in her sickly stillness. Her
desperation for his cock has made her go blind. She feels her pussy gasping for his dick the
way fish convulse out of water. Her spine is unable to relax. She is so horny she could cry.
He arrives.
She watches him come down the stairs.
She is again surprised by his eyes, which again have changed. But he is handsome, commanding, and his skin looks
clean and soft, and his smile is friendly and it puts her at ease, and he’s
getting closer and it takes forever. He
stops at the door and peers in. She
knows he is there to fuck her, yet he just stands there. Like a dog, she clings to the space between
them, waiting to be fed. But she must
wait.
She follows his slow steps, watching him
obediently. She doesn’t know if he still
intends to rub his dick along her ass crack, if he will let her choke on his
cock as her taste buds try to memorize the salty flesh around his balls, if he
will massage his warm cum on her thighs to make her sleep. She can’t tell if he wants to lose his tongue
inside her and make her cunt explode with spit and heat and secrets about him
she doesn’t know. She will never know.
She now walks a little ahead of him, but he
refuses to walk faster. She offers him a
glass of water – a senseless gesture to kill time and bring him deeper into her
apartment so she can force her pussy on him and consume him whole. She asks him a banal question about his day
and passes him a cup of water because she doesn’t own glasses. He ignores her and instead takes a sip from
the cup, barely. Perhaps he was just
mimicking the action. She cannot even
see the water slide down his throat. But
he ignores her and refuses to meet her eyes which are waiting on him with a
desire that is charged with violence and greed.
For a second, she thinks he is gone.
He won’t look at her or talk to her.
He won’t drink water. He won’t
walk quickly. He won’t touch her. For a second, she is waiting forever. She is so numbed by that bursting throb in
her pussy and the froth behind their lips she doesn’t even realize the moment
he starts descending towards her. His
eyes still away, the cup of water untouched.
She wants to throw herself at him, but instead, she melts. Her flesh oozes onto his. His strength begins to permeate its way
through. His tongue is warm and full of
the sex he’s had. She’s forgotten
herself as her pussy reaches forward trying to catch him, wanting to smear his
face with her sap, hoping it will smell like fungus on dry roses or anything
piercing and beautiful. She feels his
hands slide onto her ass and everything disintegrates. The yukata comes off.
She can
breathe.
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