What We Do in the Shadows

“Please.” You whined. 

“You sound like you didn’t cause this.” The lack of empathy on his face only makes it worse. Only makes your skin burn and gather sweat, barely filling your lungs. The underside of his cock pushing back and forth through your slit, wet and loud in your eyes. “You did this to yourself.” His words mock you just as much as your arousal does. Evidence of how many times you’ve come, of how your body is spent and can’t stop giving itself over to him. Letting him pull, take, and use you. 

The more his mouth sucks at your clit, the more his fingers curl up inside of you and press against your walls, the more you gush around him. His eyes on yours when you declare you can’t come anymore, and he pulls another from you. 

He allows your fingers to dig into his hair to try and push him away from your swollen cunt. The corner of his mouth pulled up when the flick of his wrist has your hands unable to move. 

Making a show of how powerless you truly are against him in so many ways. So many ways that should fill you with fear. Should anger you. But only heat your cheeks in the opposite effect. The reasons as to why you ran from him long forgotten, long regretted, long praised and thanked by the haze of pleasure, want, the need to rest—to be devoured by him. 

An overwhelming feeling of not being whole, not being able to be put back together unless it’s by his hands taking you apart in the first place. 

His fingers dig into your wrists, your knees pressed against his chest, pushing your ass up from the bed enough to have his hips driving deeper, harder, against it. The tip of his cock hits that part of your pussy that no longer aches when he’s this deep. When your walls are this swollen and fluttering around the thickness of him. 

His mouth leaves bites against your jaw, “are you going to leave me again?” You shake your head, tears sting your eyes, your body spent and overstimulated yet still pulling him in. Still aching for another release and to be awarded his. 

He groans against your cheek, “all I’ve shown you, given you, and you run from me. What happened to my good little acolyte?” His dark eyes look down at you, a hand at the crown of your head, thumb rubbing a soothing circle against your skull. “Are you still my girl?”