Pathetic cannot quite do you justice, really, not when you're looking up at me with empty, glossy eyes, opened lips that always seem to carry a silent pleading on them, your fingers desperately clawing into my thighs as if to find stability in the contact, sweat coating your soft curves and edges,
certainly not as your hips keep rolling back and forth, frantically, non-rhythmically, chasing the friction from my boots, barely enough to keep you on edge, almost enough to push you over, and you know these both to be true, but continue still, and drive yourself closer to a mixture of pure pleasure and unfulfilling insanity, soreness in between your thighs, a wet, steaming mess,
and oh, how pathetic does no longer qualify as you pant and beg and moan and whine, when I lift up my boot against your heat and push hard, making you twitch and squeal, uttering gratefulness in incoherent phrases, while you spill yourself all over the black leather.
Pathetic is as close as it gets, but surely, if there was another word that grasped even beyond it... You would pride yourself on it without question.













