Brock/Mol, Bloodplay, R
anonymous
February 19 2009, 17:55:50 UTC
"You bitch!"
Brock Samson landed heavily on his side, pain blossoming as he felt capillaries burst under his skin. He rolled onto his back to flip back up, but she was on him before he could get any leverage.
She moved like a big jungle cat. Crouching over him, one knee on his chest, Molotov grinned down at him.
"On your back already, Samson?" She laughed. "What's wrong, hmm? Too tired from working your pretty little whores all night?"
Brock grunted and head butted her, but Molotov whipped her head out of the way. She dove like a snake, her teeth sinking into the side of Brock's neck. He hissed, his body arching up in a mix of pain and pleasure. He felt first the heat of Mol's thighs than the hardness of that damn metal thing she never took off.
Fucking tease.
He felt blood on his neck, then Molotov's tongue, lapping it up. The fucking bitch! She knew what she did to him! Brock's hands found her hips and he pulled her down, not caring about the painful crush of her chastity belt. One hand tangled in her hair and wrenched her head to the side. Instead of her neck, he bit down on the swell of her breast. He felt her shudder, heard her suck in her breath. Brock sucked hard on her flesh, feeling himself harden, knowing this was going to end with a cold shower. No matter how many times they tangled and tumbled, he never even got so much as a hand job.
But now, that didn't matter. Her skin was hot, and he greedily sucked her breast, drawing the blood to the surface below her skin. He flipped them, pinning Mol under him.
"Who's on their back now?" he asked, taking the leather of her catsuit in his teeth and ripping it back, exposing her breasts. She lifted her body in an elegant arch, and then her hip was slamming into his and her feet were against his abdomen and Brock was flying backward into the wall.
Molotov flipped to her feet easily, her torn black catsuit hanging open. God dammit, she was beautiful. There was a bit of blood at the corner of her lips and he didn't know if it was his or hers. He didn't care.
"Naughty, naughty, Samson," she teased, licking away the blood. "But I'm late for a job. I'll have to punish you properly another time. Goodbye, Samson."
She was out the window before the knife she flung had finished grazing Brock's arm.
Brock Samson landed heavily on his side, pain blossoming as he felt capillaries burst under his skin. He rolled onto his back to flip back up, but she was on him before he could get any leverage.
She moved like a big jungle cat. Crouching over him, one knee on his chest, Molotov grinned down at him.
"On your back already, Samson?" She laughed. "What's wrong, hmm? Too tired from working your pretty little whores all night?"
Brock grunted and head butted her, but Molotov whipped her head out of the way. She dove like a snake, her teeth sinking into the side of Brock's neck. He hissed, his body arching up in a mix of pain and pleasure. He felt first the heat of Mol's thighs than the hardness of that damn metal thing she never took off.
Fucking tease.
He felt blood on his neck, then Molotov's tongue, lapping it up. The fucking bitch! She knew what she did to him! Brock's hands found her hips and he pulled her down, not caring about the painful crush of her chastity belt. One hand tangled in her hair and wrenched her head to the side. Instead of her neck, he bit down on the swell of her breast. He felt her shudder, heard her suck in her breath. Brock sucked hard on her flesh, feeling himself harden, knowing this was going to end with a cold shower. No matter how many times they tangled and tumbled, he never even got so much as a hand job.
But now, that didn't matter. Her skin was hot, and he greedily sucked her breast, drawing the blood to the surface below her skin. He flipped them, pinning Mol under him.
"Who's on their back now?" he asked, taking the leather of her catsuit in his teeth and ripping it back, exposing her breasts. She lifted her body in an elegant arch, and then her hip was slamming into his and her feet were against his abdomen and Brock was flying backward into the wall.
Molotov flipped to her feet easily, her torn black catsuit hanging open. God dammit, she was beautiful. There was a bit of blood at the corner of her lips and he didn't know if it was his or hers. He didn't care.
"Naughty, naughty, Samson," she teased, licking away the blood. "But I'm late for a job. I'll have to punish you properly another time. Goodbye, Samson."
She was out the window before the knife she flung had finished grazing Brock's arm.
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