You infuriate me. You really do.
It's unfair -- criminal, almost -- that any one woman should have a body like that. Legs that go approximately up to your chin, hips that swing like they're on ball bearings, an ass that strains the fabric of your tight jeans, breasts so perfect in their marveled rondure that poets write epics about them. Full lips, sparkling mischievous eyes, a pert nose, windblown tousled hair that begs me to wind my fingers through it. And, damn it all, you know it well, and take full advantage of it. You snap your fingers and I dance. You whistle and I come when you call, panting like a dog. Your merest touch commands obedience, even though I hate myself with every fiber of my being for being so weak.
I rage. I rage against the icy eyes that hold me captive, the slight, slight smile that makes my knees go wobbly and my brain turn to tapioca, the low sultry voice that gets me hard by reading the telephone book. I rage against the failings in my character that let you control me so easily, against my damnable lack of anything resembling willpower. I rage against my distinct lack of experience, the product of too many years spent in solitude, the fact that your amazing femininity in and of itself gives you the puppet strings you need to make me jerk and dance about in spastic twitches.
You infuriate me. Running a finger along my lips, feeling me tremble under your touch. Running your hands along my back and neck softly, fingers caressing, stroking my hair. I shiver and gulp under your touch, knowing the whole while that it's the touch of a mistress caressing her dog, helpless to resist, not even knowing if I want to when even that slight touch sends such sparks, flaming desire dancing along every nerve ending.
How many times? How many times have you tormented and teased me? How many times have I gone home with balls aching, rod straining my jeans, hoping desperately that I could get home before spilling my desire? How many times have I failed miserably, gone off hair-trigger, under your slight caresses, wet spot forming in my jeans as I buck and snap like a shrimp on a dock, my essence spraying not into your warmth, but into the cotton prison of my underwear? How many times have you looked at me with amusement dancing in those eyes, stroking the ridge in my jeans till I forgot myself and reached for you, to be met with a stinging slap that crossed my eyes and rang carillon bells in my head?
Upon my oath, I'm not a violent man. But I tire of being your pet. One day the tables will turn. One day I
will see fear in those eyes. Will see you back against the wall as I advance, rage burning low in me, burning, burning, till it's a tossup which is more intense -- the dull heat at my groin or the rage flaming at my core.
There will be violence then, yes -- but not hands-and-fists violence. Only the violence of rent clothing, of being slammed against the wall hard enough to bruise your back, of my mouth on yours, stubble rasping, scratching your tender skin. The violence of buttons flying, pinging off the lampshade nearby, of my hands plundering your breasts, squeezing and mauling them till you cry out with pain and humiliation. The violence of ripped panties, of jeans around your ankles, of being bent over the couch, ass raised, legs thrust rudely apart. Of a hand between your legs, feeling the awakened heat, a chuckle torn from my throat gone raw with suppressed lust.
Because this is what you wanted, isn't it? You'd played me like a master violinist, tightened my strings till I nearly snapped from the pressure -- but "nearly" being the key word. Had raised my passions and ignited my rages till I gave you what you needed -- a dominating, hard fury that finally tore away any semblance of control and propriety in your too-tight life and let you surrender to its dark wash. You wanted this more than anything else -- wanted to be taken, possessed, used roughly and brutally till there was nothing left in your world but pure, raw sensation.
And I'll take it, too. Driving hard and fast, taking what's been mine all along, had I but known it. Plunging deep, plunging hard, angry steel merging with your liquid center. Screams of anticipation, of rage, of fear and shame and delight. Of ecstasy. Invading you, battering, leaving marks on your flesh, scarring and searing your soul with rippling flames, binding you to me now and forevermore.
Fire cleanses, fire destroys. But only in the fires of a forge is the strongest steel made. Links that can never be broken.
-- PB
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