#stop looking at me like that

Dogs Chasing Cars

I’m not supposed to enjoy the chase this much. That’s the sign of a temperament, an inclination, a proclivity towards the act, the thrill, the adrenaline hit that I get when I’m in pursuit. That’s the sign of someone who won’t be satisfied when they catch the object of their desire, when I’ve finally got you. I’ll just go searching again. 

But it courses through my veins, when I’m after you. It’s an electric thrill that starts in my chest and rockets down my fingers, to every word that I type, up to my lips, making them fuzz, to every word that I whisper in your ear. The world is vivid, when I haven’t quite got you yet. It feels like I’m on edge, tracking every single detail of every single scene, for the one thing that will make you mine. 

The trick, then, isn’t to figure out a way to lock myself down, make me not want to chase any more, geld myself so that the urge to run doesn’t make my leg twitch when I’m asleep. 

No, the trick is to never let me stop running. I haven’t got you until you’re down and begging, every piece of yourself offered up on a platter. The girl that always has something left, not held back but just further in, is the one that will keep the electric running over my skin,every hair raised and on edge. A bottomless depth of a person, a midnight blue. 

She was hard to read. It was about as big a moment as they’d had together, and her arousal was making it hard to tell what was going on in her head, beyond the usual expletives and deistic invocations. He grabbed her thighs, prying them apart, working against sentient muscles, more concerned with getting some friction against that throbbing core of her than allowing him to do their work for him. She grabbed the bed, throttling the sheets as he pressed his lips against that slick warmth. 

“Fucker!” She always insulted him when he went down on her, and he always made her pay for it, but never too much. His fingers reached up, finding that tense nipple, a hard point of arousal, and he pinched and twisted. She swore some more, and he couldn’t help but grin around his tongue, pressing his nose hard against her clit.

He didn’t need restraints, not right now. Bondage was for those moments he savoured, the ones where he could draw it out into oblivion, slip a sensation across minutes and hours. Keep her still while he drank her up, until she was but an exhausted husk. Right now he just needed his hands, and the strength he had in them. One against her belly, keeping her pinned, the other toying with those poor abused nipples, turning them rouge, keeping them sensitive. 

Her’s were far away, lost to the heights above her head, grabbing and twisting and bunching and fisting that poor cotton sheet. Dominating it just as much as he as dominating her, making it a material bitch. He chuckled at the thought, sending vibrations ricocheting inside her. 

“Twat!” She was writhing underneath him, and the word was instantly met with another twist, and another swear in retort. It was a beautiful feedback loop, pain and pleasure twisting in on one another, a perverted oroboros. He pushed the snakes from his mind and slid his tongue past those swollen lips, tasting that delicious gasp that catapulted past her lips. Her stomach was a wave under his hand, undulating constantly. He tweaked a nipple and she nearly screamed bloody murder.

The throb of blood between his legs was almost painful. This was the moment he enjoyed the most, the warmup, where he wasn’t quite able to enjoy himself as much as he wanted to be. Too many things to do at once, he was spoilt for choice.

Which was a pretty good place to be.

“Cunt!” His grin spread wider, and he lanced his tongue in deep.