Lucifer/Eve’s daughter – The Serpent and the Maiden, Forbidden (2)skysamuelleMarch 4 2014, 18:14:49 UTC
“It’s not what I want, and soon, it won’t be what you want neither.” In her ears, it sounds so matter-of-fact. She can feel his smile against her nape as his fingers brush aside her dark hair, tries to imagine his face even while the dread just intensifies. Her mother used to say - just to talk with Lucifer invites corruption, because his skill to tempt and persuade leaves no way out, no place to hide. So she fears questioning him, fears the doubts his voice might plant in her mind… but most, his arm around her waist, keeping her in place. And the hand that cups her down below, already too possessive, too daring, like she was already his. “You are so beautiful, and I want to possess you.” “Like you wanted to possess my mother?” “More. You are what she should have been. What I wanted for her to be, but she never could be ” “You don’t know me!” she insists, and she should have the grace to be humiliated at the fingers that stroke her sex, pressing and releasing, teasing and soothing in turns. The blood that rushes to her cheeks tough, it has nothing to do with embarrassment. Inside, there’s frustration. Helplessness. Some kind of unknown want. “Oh, I do, you know I do …” and she feels his mind inside her mind for a moment and the panic of not knowing how this is possible makes her to struggle to get free. At least until his will, stronger than hers, pins her thoughts and limbs down again, fills her with a sudden clarity - she is a gift he always meant to collect. A gift seen long before she was even conceived. Innocence that longs to be despoiled instead of unwilling, obedient ignorance. A forbidden fruit for the Great Temptator himself. Her thighs clench reflexively as his fingers sneak inside, trapping his hand between them instead of stopping the coming invasion. “It’s wrong-” she chokes out lout and she doesn’t know what she is referring to the most: the hard, swollen member pushing to nestle between her buttocks, the thumb that remains ruthlessly on her button, the invasion of her mind, her fading control on her body. The fingers that tear through her maidenhead without gentleness , like this is something she owes to him, and that keep to stroke in and out of her with a relentless rhythm she should not enjoy. Yet she does, and the want that ignites in her belly forces her to spread open against his forceful invasion and roll her head back against his shoulder, whimpering . Does it matter that she never even saw his face? He is in her, not only inside her cunt or inside her head but in something deeper , written in her bones maybe … or in her soul. His eyes are grey when she opens hers and meets them. Familiar and unfamiliar. He is like a dream she knows but has forgotten and it’s still wrong, so wrong but she needs it anyway. “More” she demands, driving right in. Maybe she likes how wrong tastes.
In her ears, it sounds so matter-of-fact. She can feel his smile against her nape as his fingers brush aside her dark hair, tries to imagine his face even while the dread just intensifies.
Her mother used to say - just to talk with Lucifer invites corruption, because his skill to tempt and persuade leaves no way out, no place to hide.
So she fears questioning him, fears the doubts his voice might plant in her mind… but most, his arm around her waist, keeping her in place. And the hand that cups her down below, already too possessive, too daring, like she was already his.
“You are so beautiful, and I want to possess you.”
“Like you wanted to possess my mother?”
“More. You are what she should have been. What I wanted for her to be, but she never could be ”
“You don’t know me!” she insists, and she should have the grace to be humiliated at the fingers that stroke her sex, pressing and releasing, teasing and soothing in turns. The blood that rushes to her cheeks tough, it has nothing to do with embarrassment. Inside, there’s frustration. Helplessness. Some kind of unknown want.
“Oh, I do, you know I do …” and she feels his mind inside her mind for a moment and the panic of not knowing how this is possible makes her to struggle to get free. At least until his will, stronger than hers, pins her thoughts and limbs down again, fills her with a sudden clarity - she is a gift he always meant to collect. A gift seen long before she was even conceived. Innocence that longs to be despoiled instead of unwilling, obedient ignorance. A forbidden fruit for the Great Temptator himself.
Her thighs clench reflexively as his fingers sneak inside, trapping his hand between them instead of stopping the coming invasion.
“It’s wrong-” she chokes out lout and she doesn’t know what she is referring to the most: the hard, swollen member pushing to nestle between her buttocks, the thumb that remains ruthlessly on her button, the invasion of her mind, her fading control on her body. The fingers that tear through her maidenhead without gentleness , like this is something she owes to him, and that keep to stroke in and out of her with a relentless rhythm she should not enjoy.
Yet she does, and the want that ignites in her belly forces her to spread open against his forceful invasion and roll her head back against his shoulder, whimpering . Does it matter that she never even saw his face?
He is in her, not only inside her cunt or inside her head but in something deeper , written in her bones maybe … or in her soul.
His eyes are grey when she opens hers and meets them. Familiar and unfamiliar. He is like a dream she knows but has forgotten and it’s still wrong, so wrong but she needs it anyway.
“More” she demands, driving right in.
Maybe she likes how wrong tastes.
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