CoolMintCreme
Posts: 16
Joined: 8/31/2012 Status: offline
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Written to be read aloud, with sound echoing sense. Fern Under Pheromone I smell fern under pheromone, sweat with a purpose, a blunt advertisement to have and be had. I take her wrists in hand, trussed tight behind her with twine that leaves marks. I pull them up sharply. She pitches and whimpers. Her black satin boy shorts are bunched at her knees. She needs to be taken and rectified somehow, the chrysalis broken to let beauty loose. She needs to be had with a pounding that thrums in the bones of her pelvis, her back and her jaw. And she needs to wait. She needs to ride ridges, to teeter and waver, to fall and be pulled back athwart an abyss. I take out the flogger I keep in a holster as if this was some kind of OK Corral. Eight strands of bull hide; rich, supple, substantial. I swing from the shoulders. It whistles and strikes. "Ow!" in two syllables, cracked in the middle. Cracked like her ass with a new hint of blush. The spreader bar binding her ankles meets footboard by short lengths of chain tied with eyehooks to brass. Her fingers flutter, bird shot from the sky, flailing and spasming, grasping in space. "Ow!" like a cry this time, reedy soprano. Surprise stands aside and lets dark torment in. I am in a sense a slave to her backside, in ways we don't speak of but well understand. This down-covered peach trumpets innocence, decadence, welcomes the whip and the cock and the hand. Beckons my lips and tongue bold into places that lovers before me did not choose to go. Welcomes sensation across a glad spectrum from feathery fingers to crops and to cats. Welcomes and offers the wild thing beneath it, the thing now well swollen with damp woman ache. When animals mate, they call this presenting. I want to see ribbons adorning my gift. Smack! and it jiggles; she quakes as it quivers. I mark my territory. She leaves the scent.
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