A/N: this whole 'Lolita' is part of my Summer Bummer series which will consist oneshots of ak, Rehman Baloch urf Rehman Dakait, nd maybe sm other characters too(no spoilers). They'll not be related or will have coinciding stories with eachother, but will follow the theme line of age-gap, cottagecore, dilf yada yada. Ts is 3rd one <3
Disclaimer: This fictional narrative is intended for mature audiences only. It explores themes of significant age-gap dynamics, power imbalances, and graphic sexual content that may not be suitable for all readers. (Anal use)
Linseed oil, turpentine, scattered paint tubes..... and the breeze drifting in from the Arabian Sea.
Here, at fifty-eight, Akshaye found his only true silence. He stood before a large canvas, his back straight, wearing nothing but a pair of loose linen trousers, his eyes in deep shades of onyx as he focused on the interplay of light and shadow.
He was a man of observation, a silent surveyor of beauty.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and the silence was shattered by a presence that felt like a soft hit of sweet sin.
You walked in, your youth vibrant and loud against the stillness of his life. You were wearing a dark blue silk robe that shimmered like the deep ocean under the room golden shade of chandelier and lamps.
You didn't say a word at first. You walked up behind him, your bare feet silent on the floorboards.
You leaned into him, your soft chest pressing against his broad, warm back. Nipples softly turning hard out of the arousal.
You reached up, your fingers tracing the blades of Akshaye's shoulder before your lips found his earlobe.
"Paint me, Mr Khanna," you whispered, the words a sultry demand that vibrated through him.
"Not a landscape. Not the sea. Paint me."
He felt the silk of your robe brush against his skin, He felt your hot breath on his neck, He felt your hardening nipples too; it would be lie if he'd say that this whole demand isnt making him hard. As you leaned further in, your breath hot against his ear.
"And I want it to be bare.... I want you to paint me as me.. without anything ."
Akshaye’s hand, holding the brush, stilled, and tightened. He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tightening as the man of maturity and calm....fought the surge of raw, masculine hunger you always managed to ignite.
He didn't turn around, but his voice was a low, gravelly rumble.
"You’re a dangerous muse, my princess."
"Only for you, Mr khanna," you countered softly with a sweet smile, only you and him knows that smile is anything but pure.
You pulled away and walked toward the velvet burgundy chaise lounge positioned in the center of the room.
With a slow, deliberate grace, you untied the silk belt. The robe slid off your shoulders, pooling around your ankles in a heap of dark blue shadows.
You stepped out of it, revealing your bare, Aphrodite-like beauty to the golden light.
You reclined on the couch, your skin looking like polished ivory, your curves a masterpiece that no canvas could ever fully capture.
He didn't move at first. He stood frozen by his easel. (How she turns him on is need to be watched over). After, for like a good 4-5 minutes later, coming from the trance of her seduction, he commands,
"Stay," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He changed the current canvas of soul less to a new canvas of young lust.
He picked up a charcoal stick instead of a brush. He needed to feel the friction; he needed the tactile connection of the grit against the paper.
He began to sketch, but the air between the easel and the couch was so thick with tension it felt like moving through water.
Every time his eyes flicked from the canvas to your body, the silence in the room grew heavier.
He mapped the curve of your hip with a slow, deliberate gaze that felt as physical as a touch.
He traced the line of your throat, the way your chest rose and fell with each hitched breath, and the shadow where your thigh met the velvet.
"You're looking at me like I'm a target, Mr Khanna," you whispered, your voice a sultry challenge dripping in tease and playfulness that broke the stillness.
"I'm looking at you the way a man looks at his greatest... ruin," he replied, his hand pausing. He looked up, his gaze locking onto yours.
"You have no idea how much effort it takes not to drop this charcoal and come over there."
He trailed his eyes back to the canva, the scratching sound of the charcoal the only rhythm in the room.
He was a man of a fooking observation, but tonight, observation was a form of torture.
He could see the way your skin flushed under his scrutiny, the way your long wavy raven hair cascade all over the burgundy couch headrest, the way your eyes looking at him in utter challenge as if the whole demand is to mock and torture his manhood, the way your lips are in deeper shades of pink than usual and slightly apart, the way your chest rising up & down from the breathing in of air making your blossoms look more tender and sacred, the way your legs one slightly tracing on its toes, and and and and that sweet shelter... that pussy, tightly clamped between those thighs.
The tension stretched, pulling tighter with every second. The sheer, raw vulnerability of your nudity. It was an intimate, silent dialogue—a voyeuristic dance where he held the power of the gaze, but you held the power of the inspiration.
"I can feel your eyes Mr Khanna" you murmured, your fingers lightly grazing the velvet.
"They're hot and a little bit darker i say..It's like you're touching me without moving." yn says that innocently as if she has no slightest idea about the heat that's rising on each passing second. Heat.... of deep ruby red romance.
His breath hitching in surprise as he watched you rise from the velvet chaise.
You didn't just stand; you unfurled like a rare, nocturnal orchid flower. You reached down and snatched the dark blue silk from the floor, draping it over one shoulder and letting it hang precariously across your hip. You were wrapped in it, yet entirely exposed—a tease of silk against the ivory perfection of your skin.
You began to walk toward him, rhythmic death knell for his self-control. Akshaye’s eyes followed the sway of your hips, his hands clenching at his sides.
Akshaye who prided himself on his stoic, private nature, but under the heat of your gaze, that armor was melting.
When you reached him, you didn't stop.
You stepped into his personal space, the scent of vanilla and sweet lilies crashing over him. With a slow, deliberate movement, you reached past his steady frame and plucked a long-handled brush from the crystal jar on his table.
You dipped the tip into a pool of deep, midnight-blue oil paint, the bristles soaking up the pigment until they were heavy and wet.
Akshaye watched you, mesmerized, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Before he could utter a word of protest or command, you raised the brush.
With a flick of your wrist, you smudged a streak of the cold, dark paint across his cheekbone, dragging it down toward his jawline.
The shock of the wet paint against his skin made his eyes little widen, his pupils dilating until they were almost as dark as the hue you’d marked him with.
You leaned in close—so close that he could feel the frantic heat radiating from your bare skin, so close that the silk of your robe brushed against his linen trousers.
Your lips hovered just a hair’s breadth from his, your breath mingling with his in the quiet room.
"Paint me," you whispered, the words vibrating against his mouth.
"Not on a canvas that hangs on a wall... Me..... Use me as your canvas, Mr Khanna. Add your hue IN me."
Then, you gave him that smile. It was a curve of the lips that held the power of a thousand suns—a smile... that could ruin a man’s reputation or give him a reason to live another fifty years. It was seductive, knowing, and utterly lethal.
You turned to retreat toward the chaise, the air in the room seemed to snap.
Before you could take a single step, his large, warm hands shot out, catching you by the waist with a firm, territorial grip that anchored you right where you stood.
He pulled you back flush against his chest, the heat of his bare torso seeping through the thin silk of your robe.
He leaned down, burying his nose deep into the crook of your neck and the thick, fragrant waves of your hair.
He took a long, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your youth—vanilla and the electric tang of adrenaline—as if he were trying to pull your very essence into his lungs.
The weight of him was a physical barrier, trapping you in the circle of his arms. There was no space to breathe, let alone escape. He held you with the quiet, heavy authority of a man who had spent decades learning that the most precious things are those you hold the tightest.
"You think you can just leave me hanging and walk away?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated against your spine.
Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his hand. He moved it from your waist, his palm sliding up the curve of your throat until he clamped his hand firmly over your cheek.
His touch was dominant and strong, his fingers spanning from your jaw to your temple as he forced your head to the side, baring the long, elegant line of your neck to the amber light.
He held your face in that possessive grip, his eyes dark and swirling with a primal intensity as he looked down at you.
The smudged blue paint on his cheek made him look like a warrior from another time, rugged and unyielding.
Akshaye didn’t waste a second and just kissed you hard.
His mouth crashed against yours with a raw, long-dormant hunger that swept away any remaining pretense of the "controlled men persona."
It was a bruising, desperate make-out session, his tongue tangling with yours as he tasted the midnight-blue paint and the sweet, defiant fire of your youth.
As he kissed you, his hands were everywhere, frantic and possessive. He reached for the lapels of your dark blue robe, the silk offering no resistance as it hissed down your arms and pooled on the floor, leaving you completely bare in the light.
He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of defeat and desire, before his hands hooked under your thighs.
With a surge of strength, he hoisted you up. Your legs instinctively locked around his waist, the friction of your bare skin against his linen trousers sending a jolt through the room.
He carried you to the long, sturdy wooden workbench—the altar of his craft. With a sweep of his arm, he cleared a space, the clatter of jars and palette knives echoing against the high ceiling as he sat you down amidst the clutter of his supplies.
The table was cold against your skin, but Akshaye was a furnace.
He pressed himself between your knees, his hands framing your face as he leaned back in to drink from your lips again.
When he finally pulled back to breathe, his eyes were dark, almost black with lust. He paused, his gaze dropping to your face.
In his rush to hold you, his left hand had landed in a spilled puddle of crimson-red oil paint on the table.
Now, a vibrant, visceral streak of red was smeared across your left cheek—a vivid contrast to the ivory of your skin and the midnight blue of your lips.
He stared at the mark, his chest heaving, his fingers hovering as if he were shocked by the mess he had made of his perfect muse.
You stared at his crimson-stained palm, your eyes glassy and heavy with the lust of the moment.
Slowly, you reached up and took his large, paint-slicked hand in yours.
Your fingers were small against his, but your grip was steady.
You guided his palm, dragging the wet, red paint from your cheek, down the sensitive curve of your jawline.
You watched his face as you pulled his hand lower, the cold, thick oil tracing a path down the elegance of your neck. Akshaye’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently as he watched the red streak descend.
With a slow, seductive way, you dragged his hand further down, over your collarbone and across the soft, rising swell of your breasts.
The crimson paint mapped the contours of your body, leaving a bold, scarlet trail that looked like a blooming wound of passion across your chest. (TS IS my fav line GODDD ISTGGGGG im crine)
"Don't stop," you whispered, your voice a silken thread in the dark.
"Cover me in your colors, Akshaye. Make me your masterpiece." His name from her lips, that's it... his final restraint tattered.
He leaned down, his mouth following the trail of red paint he had just left, his tongue tasting the metallic tang of the oil and the heat of your skin.
With a low, predatory growl, he gripped your shoulders and pushed you back roughly against the wooden workbench.
The jars of pigment rattled and clattered around you, but you didn't care—you were already floating in a dimension of pure sensation.
He descended upon you, his mouth leaving trails of his territory as he kissed your body everywhere.
He pulled back just long enough to shed his linen trousers, his movements jagged and filled with a seasoned, heavy urgency.
When he stepped back between your spread thighs, he didn't give you what you wanted immediately.
Instead, he leaned over you, his eyes dark with a flick of masculine mischief—a small, simmering revenge for the way you had toyed with him.
He took the head of his cock and began to rub it against your swollen, wet folds, tapping against your clitoris in a slow, agonizingly teasing manner.
He watched your face, savoring the way your eyes rolled back and your breath hitched in broken, jagged gasps.
"You wanted to be the canvas, princess," he whispered, his voice a gravelly, territorial rumble.
"An artist never rushes the first stroke."
"Akshaye... please," you whimpered, your hands clenching tight of the edge of the table. You were a moaning mess, your hips arching off the cold wood of the table, begging for the friction to stop being a tease and start being a reality.
"Just fuck me. Please, just fuck me."
He saw the desperation in your eyes—the raw, youthful lust that he had finally matched with his own late-fifties intensity.
He gripped your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin, and in one sudden, devastating motion, he drove into you.
He penetrated you in a single, unyielding go, sinking all the way to the hilt until he hit your cervix.
The air left your lungs in a loud, shattered moan that echoed against the high rafters of the room.
It was a total, absolute takeover. The thickness of him filled you so completely that for a moment, the world stopped spinning. He stayed there for a heartbeat, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a ragged, triumphant exhale.
It was a hard, relentless rhythm—a pace that showed no mercy.
He fucked you with a primal, focused strength, his thrusts hitting the very center of your being.
The workbench creaked under the rhythmic assault, brushes and palettes sliding to the floor, forgotten.
Every time he drove forward, his chest crashed against yours, the red paint on your skin transferring to his own in a chaotic, beautiful smear of shared passion.
You were blind with pleasure that your old man is providing you right now, your head thrashing against the wood, your voice a constant, melodic string of moans that spurred him on.
He reached down, hooking your legs over his broad shoulders to drive even deeper, his eyes never leaving yours.
You were tightening around him, your internal muscles clamping his length with a desperate, rhythmic intensity that threatened to shatter his remaining control.
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes burning with a heavy, authority.
"Cum for me my yn. Give it all to me." he commanded, his voice a low, territorial growl that vibrated through your very bones.
You let out a long, shattered cry, your voice echoing his name—Akshaye—into the rafters of the bungalow as the first wave of a violent, heaven-like orgasm tore through you.
Your body arched off the workbench, your head thrashing back as you were consumed by a white-hot heaven that turned the warm lights of the room into like those timelapse of stars.
But he wasn't finished with you.
As you were still trembling in the peak of your release, Akshaye reached down and gripped your wrists.
With a surge of strength, he hauled you upward from your reclining position.
He didn't let go of your arms until he had forced them to wrap tightly around his neck and shoulders, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest.
He sat you upright on the edge of the table, your legs locked around his waist, keeping you trapped in the center of his heat.
In this position, gravity and his own relentless weight allowed him to sink even deeper, his every thrust hitting the very hilt of your pleasure.
He began to drive into you again, harder and faster, ignoring the fact that you were already sensitive and raw from your climax.
"Akshaye... please... it's too much," you sobbed out, the overstimulation turning your moans into broken, melodic cries.
"Shut up and take it like a good little doll for me baby" he says roughly.
Akshaye didn't slow down. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he let out a ragged, triumphant groan.
He wanted you to feel every inch of his dominance, to be completely overwhelmed by the "hue" he was leaving inside you.
Each deep, punishing thrust sent a fresh jolt of electricity through your nervous system, making your toes curl and your breath hitch in a never-ending cycle of pleasure and intensity.
Then, he felt it—the familiar, heavy pressure in his own gut reaching its breaking point. His grip on your waist tightened until his knuckles were white, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate.
With one final, devastating thrust that pushed him to the very limit of your body, Akshaye shattered.
He cummed into you in a hot, pulsing torrent, his entire frame shuddering with the force of a release that had been decades in the making.
He collapsed against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his breath coming in short, harsh stabs that mirrored your own.
Akshaye didn’t move, his forehead resting against yours as your hearts hammered a frantic, syncopated rhythm against one another.
He waited, his breath gradually slowing from a ragged roar to a deep, controlled vibration. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic crashing of the ocean and the soft hiss of the settling dust in the moonlight.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His dark eyes were hooded, reflecting that same intensity that the climax hadn't extinguished—it had only sharpened it.
With a tender, almost fatherly gesture that contrasted sharply with the raw heat of the last hour, he reached out and brushed the damp strands of hair away from your forehead.
They were stick with sweet sweat.
He gave you a lingering, soft peck on your head—a mark of affection that felt like a quiet promise before the storm returned.
"Get on your feet," he commanded. It wasn't a request; it was the low, gravelly authority of a man who knew he was being obeyed.
Without a single word of protest, your body moved on instinct. You slid off the workbench, your feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud.
Your legs were wobbly, trembling like a newborn fawn's, the muscles still humming from the overstimulation.
You gripped the edge of the table for a second to steady yourself, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes.
Akshaye didn't give you time to think. He reached out, his hand firm on your shoulder, and spun you around with a sudden, fluid grace that caught you completely by surprise.
Before you could even gasp, he moved with the decisive efficiency of a predator. He pressed your torso down onto the wooden surface of the table, your cheek pressed against the cold, paint-stained wood where the crimson oil was still wet.
He reached down and hooked his arm under your left leg, hoisting your knee up until it rested firmly on the edge of the workbench, tilting your pelvis and exposing your most vulnerable, sensitive curves to the cool night air.
The weight of his body followed immediately.
He leaned over you, his broad, warm chest pressing your back into the table, pinning you there like a butterfly under glass.
He didn't move to penetrate you yet.
Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his stubble grazing your skin.
"We aren't finished princess," he whispered, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low, territorial register that made your toes curl against the floorboards.
"Now... I’m going to take your ass. And you... like the good, obedient girl you are... you’re going to let me have it. No questions. No restraints. Just you, giving me everything I want."
The raw, dominant tone of his voice sent a fresh shiver of heat through your already shattered nerves. He stayed there for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in, his large hand splaying across the small of your back, mapping the territory he was about to claim.
He reached down, his fingers firm and possessive as he spread your cheeks, exposing the most private, delicate part of your body to the cool air and the neon shadows.
He looked down at your rear, his gaze heavy. Your hole was a tiny, rosebud of tension—untouched, pristine, and notoriously tight.
Every time he had ventured near it in the past, your body had revolted in its own innocence, the sheer pressure and your instinctive cries of pain forcing him to pull back.
But tonight, the red paint smeared across the room had changed the rules. The artist wanted to break the frame.
"So tight," he murmured, the word vibrating like a growl against your lower back.
"Like you’re holding onto a secret you don’t want me to have."
He watched the way your muscles rippled and clenched in anticipation, a wince already forming in the curve of your spine.
He knew your history—how your body instinctively closed its gates against him, how he’d never been able to seat himself fully within that specific, searing heat.
Tonight, he was determined to rewrite that narrative.
He wasn't going to let your tightness be a barrier; he was going to make it a destination.
With a slow, movement, he brought his hand to his mouth. He spat onto his index and middle fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet walls.
He watched you through the dark fringe of his lashes as he brought those wet fingers down, pressing the pads of them against that stubborn, tiny entrance.
He began to rub in slow, hypnotic circles. The friction of the spit and the heat of his skin started to work against the tension.
He watched as the muscle flickered, trying to fight him, but his touch was unyielding. He was seasoning the canvas, preparing the most difficult part of the masterpiece with a patience that only a man of fifty-eight could possess.
"I’m going to change this tonight, princess," he whispered, his other hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to keep you pinned to the workbench.
"I’m going to make myself fit. I want every part of you to know my weight. No more crying. Just you, opening up for me."
The red paint on his palm transferred to your hip as he gripped you tighter, his fingers beginning to probe, pushing just slightly against the rim.
He felt the familiar resistance, the way your body tried to lock him out, but he just leaned heavier into you, his nose buried in the scent of your skin.
He continued to rub, his lust a tangible thing that pulsed between his legs, as he prepared to turn your most guarded sanctuary into his final, crowning victory.
He palmed his length, with a slow, predatory intent, he began to rub the head of his dick against the tiny, resisting entrance of your rear.
Then, with a low, gravelly exhale that sounded like a warning, he began to push.
It was a slow, determined invasion. He felt the immediate, crushing resistance of your muscles—the way your body, in its youthful innocence, tried to lock him out.
But Akshaye was a man of decades-long patience and unyielding will.
He pressed forward, his large hand gripping your hip so hard it left a ghost of a bruise, forcing his way into that tight, searing heat.
You bit down on your lip, burying your face into the wooden workbench.
A sharp, soft cry rose in your throat, but you swallowed it, muffling your scream against the cool, paint-stained wood.
You didn't want to break the spell of the moment; you didn't want to displease the man who was currently claiming every inch of your soul.
Akshaye felt that muffled struggle. He felt the way you tried to stay silent for him, even as your body was being stretched to its absolute limit. It hit a chord deep within his masculine ego—a territorial, primal satisfaction that you would endure this level of intensity just to satisfy his whim.
A low, dark rumble vibrated in his chest—not quite a laugh, but a sound of total, dominant possession.
"That's it," he rasped, his voice a lethal whisper against your ear.
"Stay quiet for me princess. Take all of me."
Encouraged by your submission, he pushed deeper.
Each millimeter was a battle won, his length inching further into the tight, velvet canal. The pain was no longer something you could contain. The muffled silence broke into a series of jagged, pathetic sobs that you couldn't tone down.
Tears began to track through the red paint on your cheek, dripping onto the workbench as you felt the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him expanding you from the inside out.
He saw your distress, the way your frame was shaking under the weight of his invasion, but he didn't stop.
He reached down and gripped your thighs, spreading your legs even wider until your pelvis was tilted at an impossible angle, allowing him to drive even further.
"I know it hurts my yn," he murmured, his hands rough and certain as he anchored you.
"But I'm not stopping until I'm buried so deep you forget where you end and I begin."
With one final, heavy lunge, he seated himself to the very hilt.
He stayed there, unmoving, his chest heaving against your back as he let your body adjust to the total, punishing invasion.
You were a crying, broken mess beneath him, your body vibrating with the shock of being conquered so thoroughly, while he hovered over you—the artist who had finally found the most difficult, beautiful stroke of his life.
He started with slow, deliberate, and punishingly deep thrusts.
It wasn't the rhythm of a dance, but the heavy, rhythmic striking of a hammer against an anvil.
Each time he drove forward, he aimed for the very core of your being, his weight crushing you against the workbench. The power behind each stroke was enough to send a shockwave of pain through your nervous system, a sensation so intense it bypassed pleasure and went straight to a raw, visceral reality.
Despite your earlier vow of silence, the sheer magnitude of the sensation broke you.
You couldn't keep it in anymore.
The muffled whimpers turned into open, melodic moans of pain, punctuated by heavy, hitching sobs.
Your head thrashed against the wood, your fingers scratching at the paint-stained surface as you felt your body being remade by his relentless pace.
Akshaye watched you with a dark, predatory focus.
He watched the way the crimson paint on your skin glistened with sweat and tears.
He waited, his jaw set, until he felt that slight, inevitable shift—the moment your body, exhausted by the resistance, finally began to loosen and accept the invasion.
The moment he felt that softening, the pace shifted from a slow burn to a wildfire.
He began ramming into you with a raw, brutal intensity, his hips hitting your rear with a sound that echoed like a heartbeat in the quiet air.
Every thrust was a sharp, deep vibration that made the world spin.
To push you over the edge, he reached around, one hand finding your clit and stimulating it with a frantic, expert friction that sent jolts.
His other hand came up, his fingers clamping firmly around your jaw.
With a territorial grip, he forced your head back, arching your spine until your chest was thrust forward and your neck was bared.
You were transcended in a state of total overstimulation—the sharp, grounding pain of his thrusts, the frantic heat of his hand, and the dominant grip on your face.
"Look at me," he growled, his voice a guttural rasp in your ear as he continued to hammer into you.
"Feel what you're doing to me. Feel how perfectly you fit."
You were a shattered, moaning wreck, your voice a constant string of broken cries that rose and fell with his movements.
The red paint, the blue marks, and the sweat-slicked skin all blurred together.
"I love you... Akshaye" she says with a sweet big smile and glossy eyes and those dried tears on her face.
He smiles back at her, and kisses her hard.
Akshaye threw his head back, his throat corded with tension, his eyes squeezed shut as a guttural, primal groan was torn from his lungs.
He was no longer just taking; he was being consumed by the very masterpiece he had set out to create.
Whereas you were suspended in a state of absolute, shattering ecstasy.
The line between pleasure and pain had completely dissolved, replaced by a white-hot frequency that vibrated through every nerve in your body.
Every time he drove into you, the sharp, grounding sting of the stretch was immediately followed by a wave of heat that made your toes curl and your vision blur into a haze of gold and crimson.
The workbench groaned under the weight of his relentless assault, the jars of oil and turpentine rattling in a frantic rhythm that matched the slap of skin against skin.
You were a symphony of broken sounds—moans that started as cries of pain and ended as gasps of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your fingers were white-knuckled as you gripped the edge of the wood, your back arched so high that your spine felt like a bowstring about to snap.
"Akshaye... Akshaye..." you sobbed, his name a jagged prayer on your lips. You chuckled out in pure ecstasy of pleasure.
If anything, seeing the way you were unraveling under his touch only fueled his hunger.
He leaned back into his thrusts, his hips hitting you with a territorial finality that echoed through the silent bungalow.
He was taking every bit of pleasure out of you, drinking in your cries and the way your body buckled under his strength.
The sea a distant witness to the carnage of their desire.
Inside, there was only the passion, the heavy scent of paint, and the two of them locked in a collision of youth and experience, pain and pleasure, until the world outside the walls ceased to exist entirely.
Smells like turpentine and expensive regrets,
A masterpiece in crimson, where the sun never sets.
You’re fifty-eight and silver, I’m twenty-one and gold,
A story of a kingdom that was bought and then was sold.
Blue silk on the floorboards,
I’m your favorite prayer,
In your place's moonlight, the shadows start to dance, You trade your quiet dignity for one more dirty chance.
but your hands are a fire,
The architect of ruin, My king of desire.
My muffled screams are your music,
Wrapped in the heavy weight of a territorial hug.
With the mark of your fingers still hot on my neck.
A girl made of lightning,
you’re my god in the dark.
pretend i nvr wrote ts HELPPP I NEEDD HELPPPPPPPP🧚🏻♀️
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