[to have a woman's body. there's some magic to that, which witchcraft may at times allow to borrow, not to be super gender essentialist terms but -- that is what happens when you use sorcery to solve every other problem. she comes in sequence and it feels like a song being played on his cock.
one that he desires to hear, in one more refrain, and so -- he digs his nails into the heel of his hand subtly. bites his lip, willing himself not to come -- not for another few minutes, at least. but it's a fucking war inside of him, with an emphasis on the fucking. he is nightmarishly close, standing on the crumbling edge as a hot wind snakes its fingers through his hair and his clothes, lures him with falling.
how easy it would be to fall.
she makes her invitation, and he takes his fingernails out of his hands. they will, he decides, fall together.
whump.
her back meets the covers. a cooler section of fabric, unmarred as yet by the tortion of bodies, unmarked by their sweat. her gathers up her sweet lovely limbs close to him, the muscles in his own long brown back bunching up-- and then he goes. ruts in, a pace that would've been jolting, too fast, if she weren't wet and wanton already. his fingers have already lost their sense, roving over the pale fruit of her breast, that her hip. he says nonsense things:]
For the love of His Dark— fuck-- Majesty--
[at least, when you're a follower of satan, it's less paradoxical to invoke the name of your deity as you come. (but probably still weird.) (perhaps she'll be distracted, by the tender bite of his short-shorn fingernails into her right buttock, his open-mouthed kiss sending blessings into her mouth.)]
no subject
one that he desires to hear, in one more refrain, and so -- he digs his nails into the heel of his hand subtly. bites his lip, willing himself not to come -- not for another few minutes, at least. but it's a fucking war inside of him, with an emphasis on the fucking. he is nightmarishly close, standing on the crumbling edge as a hot wind snakes its fingers through his hair and his clothes, lures him with falling.
how easy it would be to fall.
she makes her invitation, and he takes his fingernails out of his hands. they will, he decides, fall together.
whump.
her back meets the covers. a cooler section of fabric, unmarred as yet by the tortion of bodies, unmarked by their sweat. her gathers up her sweet lovely limbs close to him, the muscles in his own long brown back bunching up-- and then he goes. ruts in, a pace that would've been jolting, too fast, if she weren't wet and wanton already. his fingers have already lost their sense, roving over the pale fruit of her breast, that her hip. he says nonsense things:]
For the love of His Dark— fuck-- Majesty--
[at least, when you're a follower of satan, it's less paradoxical to invoke the name of your deity as you come. (but probably still weird.) (perhaps she'll be distracted, by the tender bite of his short-shorn fingernails into her right buttock, his open-mouthed kiss sending blessings into her mouth.)]