She runs her hands up my abdomen like I'm something precious, but for once I know it's not because of the hue of my blood. Her face is, as always, intense - she still won't let me take off those wretched glasses. With her I can let down my guard, be the woman I want to be instead of the girl I am. With her, I can let the glubbing mask I wear fall for a little while.
She brushes her fingers against the ridged scars above my ribs, takes one of my nipples into her mouth. One of her hands reaches up to tangle in my hair and I let my hair fall back. No one's ever touched me quite like she does. She likes to learn, to watch me. She likes to hear the sounds I make when she does something right, when she hits just the right spot.
She prefers to play with my bulge than to slip her fingers into my nook, prefers me to fuck her with all my strength than to bend me over and take me herself. She likes it when I take her from behind and squeeze her breasts, but she likes it more when she sits astride me and I claw deep scratches into her back. She loves it when I lick the blood away, when she can see the blue stains on my tongue. She loves it when she bites me and draws blood herself, loves to take it and smear it over her skin. She loves to mark and be marked, loves to be defiled and loves to corrupt.
With her I'm the woman I could be instead of the girl I am, and we flip between black and red so fast it makes my head spin.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
