17 April 2011

Frantic. . .

And it's a raw animal need that burns and prowls around inside, caged, held within, lurking in the depths awaiting its moment to be released.

Awaiting its moment to escape. 

An aggression that clenches every muscle. 

A frantic jaw clenching aggression. 

An aggression and a need that needs to be released and an aggresion that can barely be contained within.

And the beast is growling and the aggression screams with every part of the body . . .

And I don't want to see his face or his eyes. And I don't want to see him. I don't want to have to look at him. And I don't want him to exist. 

I just want him to be there, no face, no expression, no anything. 

To just be.

And I want him to there, knowing that he is there just for that reason and nothing else, knowing that it will hurt, that I will hurt.  And I need to fuck and I need to fuck him.  And I need him to cry and beg, and scream and eyes which allow the tears that fall, skin that marks and reddens with every touch that is inflicted.  And the skin reddens, and darkens, and bleeds and welts which stand out way beyond the skin, and a fight within that fights against all that I inflict, all that I desire. That fights against the bonds that secure.

And it is frantic.

And I want his helplessness. His hopelessness.

His longing. His begging.

And the aggression is frantic and needs to come out. And I need to let it out. And I need to come.

And in the aggression I want to hurt him, for him to feel it.

And I want to touch him, tease him, and hit him with all that I have.

And I am pulling him apart in every direction, making him, hearing him beg for more, begging for the beast. 

And it is aggression.

And it is a raw animal energy.

And it is frantic.

And I need to come.


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