Writing exercise.
I like writing wee flashers inspired by images.
This one was inspired by Hazel Donney's Self vs Self series. NSFW see it here.
It's under 300 words.
I was also thinking about Narcissus. And the intimation of self inflicted violence. It's smutty but not super explicit.
Enjoy.
I’m watching her in the mirror, Narcissus with her hands around her own throat. Her legs are spread wide and I can see into her secrets, wet wanting secrets, secrets spoken in tongue on clit and hot breath on lips.
I want her.
I hate her.
I love her.
I am her.
One-hand leaves her throat travels familiar terrain, pausing to mark one breast, it is possessive. She is mine.
She must wait, she must suffer this and watch it play out across her face and in the shiny reflection of her wanting cunt. She is a ravening beauty, molten in her rut. I’m a little shocked that the mirror does not fog and obscure my view of her. The air is clear.
I pause, she pauses and our eyes lock. Burning gaze reflected and refracted by the mirror, fingers poised over cunt, this moment is everything. Her lips twist the taste of umeboshi on her tongue.
She wants me.
She hates me.
She loves me.
She is me.
We are merged; we are greedy and too weak to resist our avaricious desire. We must have satisfaction, fingers plunged deep inside lush wet heat, lips parted, gaze on gaze on gaze in the mirror. The hand at Narcissus’ throat tightens, squeezes, nails biting into flesh. We are in the throes of subduction, mighty and flaming.
We fall.
We rise.
We are sated.
And finally spent we are one.
This one was inspired by Hazel Donney's Self vs Self series. NSFW see it here.
It's under 300 words.
I was also thinking about Narcissus. And the intimation of self inflicted violence. It's smutty but not super explicit.
Enjoy.
I’m watching her in the mirror, Narcissus with her hands around her own throat. Her legs are spread wide and I can see into her secrets, wet wanting secrets, secrets spoken in tongue on clit and hot breath on lips.
I want her.
I hate her.
I love her.
I am her.
One-hand leaves her throat travels familiar terrain, pausing to mark one breast, it is possessive. She is mine.
She must wait, she must suffer this and watch it play out across her face and in the shiny reflection of her wanting cunt. She is a ravening beauty, molten in her rut. I’m a little shocked that the mirror does not fog and obscure my view of her. The air is clear.
I pause, she pauses and our eyes lock. Burning gaze reflected and refracted by the mirror, fingers poised over cunt, this moment is everything. Her lips twist the taste of umeboshi on her tongue.
She wants me.
She hates me.
She loves me.
She is me.
We are merged; we are greedy and too weak to resist our avaricious desire. We must have satisfaction, fingers plunged deep inside lush wet heat, lips parted, gaze on gaze on gaze in the mirror. The hand at Narcissus’ throat tightens, squeezes, nails biting into flesh. We are in the throes of subduction, mighty and flaming.
We fall.
We rise.
We are sated.
And finally spent we are one.