After the battle, she lays trapped beneath you. Back bare towards you, skin painted by sweat, and head tilted to the side panting. Arms reach towards pillows, splayed out in a way that inspires some glee. You sit upon her, your throne. Knees planted in bedsheets. Arched over her with hungry fingers.
“If you think about it,” she says, between desperate breaths. “This is what I wanted. To feel you touch me. To win or lose. Is this your victory, or is it mine?”
Whispering poison, she argues pre-destiny. Ions accumulate in cells across your scalp. Water is drawn in osmotically from blood. Glands secrete it to the surface. It clings to hairs and accumulates. A single drop glides down your forehead then your cheek. Passes your lip where it reaches your tongue. You taste it and recycle the salt and water. It's a circular argument.
“Hm,” you ponder. “So says the frog to the scorpion?”
Lean closer. Her back is the most sensitive part of her body. Not unique among your sparring partners, but not very common either. The scapular region sings loudest. Behind her arms and under her shoulders. You start by tracing a line up her spine. As always, bones are your first fixation. Press deep enough to feel them. Count where each vertebrae should rest.
“The frog isn't getting fucked,” she says. “Or, whatever you insist we call this. Used. Played with. Treated like a doll. What's the verb for s/m? Hurt? Whatever. The frog isn't a toy.”
Reach the right place and a fading pant twists into a moan. Pull back. Return to the bottom and trace another pattern. In the back of your mind there's a recipe book for this. Tender meat. Listen to the sounds she makes, how she shifts against you. The occasional light spasm. Squirms underneath you. The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy herself.
“Is food supposed to talk back so much?” you say. “Contradictory. How could a toy be in charge?”
Muscles slide underneath your touch. Hunger begs you to reach around under to the front every few cycles. Compare the softer flesh to the muscles to the bone. And let fingernails draw marks in the skin. Like signing your name. Squeeze and count how flesh indents around your fingers. Imagine the red notes she feels where you press or pull too hard. Accumulate them. Her breathing is labored even when not broken up by gasps and moans.
“Rr. I am. Because I am. You do this. Because I want you to. So. I'm in charge.”
Hunger whispers of more than just breathing. You return to shoulders. Approach slowly. Imagine where wings might have sprouted and draw circles around them. Press fingertips into skin and feel it press back against you. Other hand's fingernails deepen. Scratch properly. Moans become swears. Ears perk to listen. Eyes watch the reddened patch grow. Tongue finds sweat on lips again.
“This is all your choice? All of it,” you say. “Suppose there's nothing I can do to disprove this theory.”
Scratch one shoulder while caressing the other. Patterns of four parallel red lines criss cross. You wonder how she'll speak to respond when she's busy swearing at the pain. Neither hand is close to tapping out, though occasionally a fist hits the soft of the bed. Beating against it. Releasing energy like a split atom. Cathartic destruction. Your presently-a-toy sounds so beautifully pathetic for you.
“Fuckfuckfuck. No,” she says. “Ah. Buuut. Fuck. I'm right. Fuckfuck. You're mine. Miiiiiine.”
Her voice has an almost sniveling quality to it at times. Each word somewhere between arrogance and humor. Like she knows a joke and is performing the act of it. Like it's all at someone else's expense, or maybe because she's waiting for it to be at her expense. It's absent in the swears. They contain only desperation. If your grip was less solid, the squirming might be a problem.
“Maybe,” you say. “So what? I do what I wish to do. I eat the food placed in front of me. All else is sophistry.”
Briefly, she has some respite. Fingers leave her body and reach up towards her arms. Stretch out your legs behind you. A bit like flexing wings after they were so cramped beneath you. And, bite down. Teeth meet skin. Respite returns to moaning, then swearing. Swearing runs into itself and collapses into exhales. It's a song of sorts. All for you. A delicious meal.
And, with your teeth in place, you won't let her talk any longer.
.
I think the worst part of like 'creating things online' is advertising yourself. I really wish I could just let my work speak for itself, and I try to, but I'm told that's bad practice.
On days that aren't Saturday, I write short things for my patreon. Somewhere between 'exploratory kink writing' and 'working on getting better at writing'. Then on Saturday I select one of the pieces from the week to share on tumblr. This is that. Hope you liked it!
