Psuedo smut
I have no idea where this came from, or who they are. Your guess is as good as mine.
He’s a hawk, my lover. All gold and brown and fierce freedom in the body of a young deity. He moves with assurity, with a leopards grace. And if it weren’t for the fact he is indelibly mine, I’d cut out every set of eyes that dare to pass over him. He’s mine to covet, and I do.
I love the way he feels, wrapped in my arms, body moving hungrily against my own in the night. There is no more beautiful sight than the sweat slicked curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, his bruised mouth gasping for air as I press into him again and again. He’s a hawk, and as he cries out my name in broken mewls I can almost see his soul in flight.
His voice is a low rumbling purr, liquid sex. When he rides me he whispers the coarsest, crudest things he knows, filthy gutter talk a sirens song. He tells me everything he wants me to do, everything he dreams about doing to me, all the dirty little fantasies that parade through his mind. He’s got quite the imagination. Times like this I can almost be persuaded to follow up on some of them.
Only some.
I’ll never hurt him, even if he wants me to, even if he begs. And I can make him beg. Roll him over and dig my fingers into the harsh line of his hip, punish him with the full weight of my body behind my thrusts, pound him screaming into the bed sheets with his legs on my shoulders and his muscles straining against the bend. He’s more flexible than he lets on, but the stretch still burns.
I want to own him. I want to buckle a little black collar around his throat and watch him struggle to breath as I force him to ecstasy over and over until he collapses. With nothing but my fingers. Maybe my tongue. I want him to call me master and mean it, seek me out for his every desire, call my name in painful rapture. I could break him to my will. I have dreams about it.
I can’t do it.
He’s a hawk. Wolves perhaps can be leashed, chained to a man and his whims without loosing their spirits, but to clip the wings of a raptor; sacrilege. Murder. He’d die for my amusement but he’d still die inside and I can’t hurt him. Not even enough to make him come in my clenching fist. It would be too easy. Too easy to start and never stop.
Forcing my way into him, tearing him open enough to fit inside and stroke that place that sets flames to the mind, that’s all I can do. Tie tethers of white hot pleasure around his talons and break him open with bliss, watch the glaze of satisfaction cover his eyes while I grit my teeth against his name. He’ll fly away. But he’ll come back.
Or I’ll hunt him down.
He’s a hawk, my lover. All gold and brown and fierce freedom in the body of a young deity. He moves with assurity, with a leopards grace. And if it weren’t for the fact he is indelibly mine, I’d cut out every set of eyes that dare to pass over him. He’s mine to covet, and I do.
I love the way he feels, wrapped in my arms, body moving hungrily against my own in the night. There is no more beautiful sight than the sweat slicked curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, his bruised mouth gasping for air as I press into him again and again. He’s a hawk, and as he cries out my name in broken mewls I can almost see his soul in flight.
His voice is a low rumbling purr, liquid sex. When he rides me he whispers the coarsest, crudest things he knows, filthy gutter talk a sirens song. He tells me everything he wants me to do, everything he dreams about doing to me, all the dirty little fantasies that parade through his mind. He’s got quite the imagination. Times like this I can almost be persuaded to follow up on some of them.
Only some.
I’ll never hurt him, even if he wants me to, even if he begs. And I can make him beg. Roll him over and dig my fingers into the harsh line of his hip, punish him with the full weight of my body behind my thrusts, pound him screaming into the bed sheets with his legs on my shoulders and his muscles straining against the bend. He’s more flexible than he lets on, but the stretch still burns.
I want to own him. I want to buckle a little black collar around his throat and watch him struggle to breath as I force him to ecstasy over and over until he collapses. With nothing but my fingers. Maybe my tongue. I want him to call me master and mean it, seek me out for his every desire, call my name in painful rapture. I could break him to my will. I have dreams about it.
I can’t do it.
He’s a hawk. Wolves perhaps can be leashed, chained to a man and his whims without loosing their spirits, but to clip the wings of a raptor; sacrilege. Murder. He’d die for my amusement but he’d still die inside and I can’t hurt him. Not even enough to make him come in my clenching fist. It would be too easy. Too easy to start and never stop.
Forcing my way into him, tearing him open enough to fit inside and stroke that place that sets flames to the mind, that’s all I can do. Tie tethers of white hot pleasure around his talons and break him open with bliss, watch the glaze of satisfaction cover his eyes while I grit my teeth against his name. He’ll fly away. But he’ll come back.
Or I’ll hunt him down.