The memory of your lips pressed
Against my exposed shell
sparks a fire in my bones
That nothing can quell
Nothing,
But you.
The ghost of your tongue flitting across my skin,
leaving a trail of goosebumps in your wake
Haunts me in the darkest of night.
My fingers delve between the sheets
Searching for release,
And I recall the sweet thrill of your touch
The burn of the leather
Your hand around my throat
Awakening the wolf within me,
Your name dancing between my parted lips.
Sir,
I can hear you calling,
The beast behind your blue eyes
Battling his chains,
Clawing for liberation,
I can hear him calling
To the creature hiding in my shadows.
She wakes to the melody of your command,
The touch of your hand,
She simply needs to please and
Oh,
does the beast within me
Yearn to please you.
It is a craving I cannot indulge,
An insatiable appetite for the imprints left on skin,
A constant reminder of you.
She aches for the sanctuary found in the art of falling apart,
Just to be put back together.
She needs to be devoured,
she longs for the release that she has been denied for so long.
And I try
I try to replace your hands with my own
With his, with hers but nothing
No one,
Quiets the storm the way that you do.
The beast within me,
Well…
She belongs to you.
Author: WildWoman1992
Him. [reddit newbie first post]
She wakes.
The first sensation she notices is the
hard steel arm chair beneath her. Next, she feels the roughness of the rope binding her ankles and wrists to the metal, and the sheer silk and lace lingerie draped across her form. Where are her clothes? Her mind is racing, trying to place where exactly she is. The last thing she remembers is the click of her heels down the alleyway heading home after the party. Then the screeching of tires, a sharp pain, and then…nothing.
She slowly opens her eyes and begins to take in her surroundings. It’s dark, so dark it’s almost like a solid mass, taunting her. The shadows take over everything and she cannot see where the walls begin or end, who or what is in the room. It’s simply black and she is simply cold, as if she is standing nude in a concrete parkade. About 2 meters, in a perfect circle around the chair, the light from the swinging spotlight above her slinks its way into the blackness just enough for her to see that she was right. The chair is set upon a paved floor that matches the walls, but placed in front of her bound ankles there is a cushion just large enough for her to kneel.