levart emit

You feel ugly. Ballooned.

You hardly recognize the lumpy figure you catch sight of when you pass a mirror. Some months are harder than others— when the heating pad tucked behind your spine proves useless, when your acne rears itself to a pubescent head, when you’re cranky as shit. This week, to your dismay, is shaping out to take much of the same form. You’ve already plowed through your ration of dark chocolate, the cache of potato chips you had squirreled away reduced to humble crumbs— and you’re only three fucking days in.

There’s no fucking way he wants you like this.

“I know I don't have to,” Frankie croons, ambered and guttural, “but I want to— fuck baby, I want you so bad.”

Meagerly you paw at him, trying to get him to see some sort of reason - you just washed these sheets yesterday; we don’t even have a towel down - as he rappels his descent to settle between the steeple of your legs, pads of his hands spreading you agape, bearing his mass on his forearms.

He doesn’t listen to you— couldn’t possibly hear you even if he wanted to, what with the feral storm raging in his mind— all thoughts whirlwinded away and replaced by the pulse at your core, beating beating beating its heady drum— and he sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh and breathes, gulped inhale filtered by the cotton of your underwear.

Citrus. Moss. Iron tang— you, all of it. All of this weeping arousal— all of it so unmistakably you, all of it so unquestionably his.

God, there is something about your fucking scent, your olfactory hallmark, that drives him wild. You always smell so damn good, divine even. Your cunt, a chalice fit for the kings - for the gods - as you drip your nectar freely into their gilded cup— not a drop squandered nor a sip gone to waste.

You’re always sickeningly gorgeous— factually, frustratingly—that’s nothing new. You consistently send Frankie buckling to his shins, a mere mortal desperate to worship you. Habitually, without fail, you make a sinner out of him— left pining for repentance, kneeling at the hollowed ground of your sex.

That's the standard. That's every goddamn day.

But it is when you are like this—this messy, aching thing—fuck, it gnarls him into something nearly unrecognizable—perverts him into a fucking animal. Half beast, half man.

Your body is a temple, a church for the devout, and Francisco, serpentine and gluttonous—

Francisco is urged to ruin it.

He muffles himself over your clothed mound, burying his face into your underwear and you squirm— pelvis fidgeting against the depraved intimacy of it all, before he clamps an authoritative palm down over your hip, rooting you still.

He moans. Frankie takes another swig of your sharpened aroma and has the audacity to moan, the sound thrumming against your center. He soothes his thumb into your skin—hushing you, assuring you. Begging you.

Let me do this. Lemme have this—please just let me have you, pretty baby.

And when you mewl an airy little noise, flighty and buoyant, he knows he has you.

Rucking the crotch of your panties to the side, the insecurity that once claimed you stupors to a hazy yen at his first swipe through your seam.

You gasp, lungs punched breathless. Fuck. Fuck.

Felined, he licks at you, curling his tongue over and over and over, lapping at you with the hunger of a man wandering a sun scorched desert. Your wrist comes up to drape wanton over your eyes, nuzzling into the pit of your elbow.

This should feel wrong. You should feel wrong— you should feel some sort of ill with the depravity of this—but such concerns evaporate as he tears your bottoms down the slope of your calves— tossing them by the foot of the bed— and drinks from you. Insatiable, thirsted, he tugs at your folds, vibrating his tongue against your clit in disarming, eager flicks, pulling you apart as he fucks you clever and hard with his damp muscle.

Like a disciple— an acolyte, a believer— does he eat from you. Your throbbing cunt, his last fucking supper.

The digits he glides into you knuckle deep - one, then two, then three, easily - notch against your walls like a dream. He crooks his fingers, hooking them at just the exact angle— nudging into that spongy patch that suffers spasms through your frame. You’re all but riding his chin— grinding away feverishly, embarrassment long since abandoned in place of your release presented there - just there - before you.

Ultimately, as they always do— your personally tailored Achilles heel—it is his eyes that push you over the edge. You’re weak, fightless to those heaven-help-me chestnut orbs that have since waxed to god-forgive-us obsidian tar— and he’s staring at you over your mound with them. Blinkless, devilish, he bores into you as he disassembles your stained middle, swiveling tight circles into that bundle of nerves pearled at your apex and fuck— fuck, oh fuck, oh Christ—

Your whole chest heaves off the mattress, spine bowing, abdominals tensing as you writhe; legs locked around the mop of brown hair bobbing and lapping and groaning, Frankie—a hound latched to your scent—ebblessly continues to suck you dry.

You've cum. You've cum all over him, your juices gushing to seep into his cross-hatched beard in the aftershock of it. A palette of mixed shades, viscous and blood-thick, dribbles out your fluttering hole, and he is all too keen to attend to them, swirling your essence into his mouth. Collecting them. Savoring.

Waste not, want not.

You yelp, too sensitive, too raw— and it is only after you rile and flinch does Frankie finally relent his ministrations—swapping the diligence of his tongue in favor of a reverent kiss to your cleft, peppering you with affection, with golden adoration. He maneuvers a northern path, tracing nibbles and nips up your body before sealing his lips over yours, fervent and wanting.

You can taste yourself thickening the bristle of his mustache—your lunar heat, that tannin musk— and you moan against his lips— laving your womanhood clean from his mouth.

He breaks away from the kiss to nose along your cheekbone and into the skewed strands of your hair— grazing the shell of your ear, rumbled words purring lowly.

“Your pussy tastes so damn good like this, sweetheart.”

Turning a floral shade, you battle the desire to fold into the stack of pillows you’re propped upon, to invert and collapse ever-inward. Somehow, even after all that, you’ve managed to go shy again— girlish and bashful at the husked praise, his voice made raspy by the slick of your cunt.

“So soft, so fucking wet.”

His thumb finds your clit, playing with you lazy and gentle— and God, he was right. You’re wet—you’re so fucking wet you can hear it— the lewd noises he’s coaxing out of you as his fingers dance. You're well past overstimulated, basking in the haloed glow of your first climax, and it doesn't take long for you to feel that familiar sensation, building building - fuck, he is too fucking good at this - building buildi—

You pout a huffed whine as Frankie abandons your pussy, robbing you of your impending orgasm. Painting glossed fingertips over the slope of your belly— a shiny, rouged line streaking up your torso in its wake—to settle there on the swell of your breast, where he twists your nipple until it's pert.

Despite the cool evening breeze whispering in through the window, the bedroom is sweltering. You’re overheated; it’s all too lurid and too hot to ingest with a level head, and the whimper that rattles loose from your throat betrays you. For it’s not shame pumping you full, but something far more insidious lacing your veins. Like a snake undulating through overgrown weeds in a gateless garden, now you aim to sow lust—now you aim to unravel him. Unmake him just as he has unmade you.

Threading your fingers through his curled locks, nails dragging over his scalp, you usher him back to your lips. His cock hangs heavy beneath his sweats, and you feel its urgent weight pressing into your inner thigh, twitching erratic with each pass of your tongue over his.

You part from him, breathy—cadence syruped and slurred. “Fuck me, Frankie. I wanna make you feel good too— so fucking good.” You roll your sex up to him, smearing yourself on his bulge, marking him. “Don’t you want to cum inside me?”

Frankie moans appreciatively, humming against your jaw, before sinking lower, lower—planting a trail of open mouthed blossoms down your neck, the valley parting your breasts, the span of your stomach and the flesh drawn taut over your hip.

“I will, baby girl— you know I will, I just—” he’s murmuring, whispers fanning over your wine dark cunt.

“I just want one more taste.”

/

tags: