Standing between your knees, looking over you laid out across the table, I’m aware of how vulnerable you must be feeling. It’s not your shifting eye contact or the tense way you have rested your arm across your stomach, just a little too high as if it’s in an invisible sling, it’s the way you won’t stop talking. Every touch elicits a mew or a whimper, nervous begging, a giggled apology; you twitter and mince and it is driving me crazy. I want to shut you up so I push your knees to your chest and hear the squeak of the last tufts of breath leave your lungs. I hold you there, wild-eyed, shocked to silence and when I know I have your attention, I nod and when you nod back I know you understand and I let you unfold your legs. I can see your pulse rippling in the side of your neck and I ask you softly if want what I have for you and you nod again, your poor lower lip being ground to a pulp in your teeth. It’s one fast jerk of my arms and you’ve been slid closer to me, your smooth buttocks crushed into the softness of my tum. My fingers dent and crush into the meat of your thighs and you squeal and plead for more, manic for me to enter you. I silence you again, this time with four fingers in your mouth, my thumb like a dagger under your jaw, pulling you onto me, watching your eyelids shuttering the world as you take everything I have for you, until you’re wet and raw, ruined in a heap on the dining room table, laid out, laid bare.

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