Lust
"Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes." Marquis de Sade
He haunts my every waking thought, my sleepless nightmares.
They will, no doubt, call him the victim, and paint me lecherous and ugly, strewn in wide, gauche strokes- as is the fashion. With a body so perverse, so lavished in intention and conviction, he summons my attention mercilessly, and I answer to its call.
The stench of alcohol and arousal shrouds our faces, steaming any vision left, until his lips disappear beneath mine and then they, too, are concealed. His name is futile, as are his gentle protests, softened by the dulling curtain of intoxication. Behind lazy lids, blue eyes stare in almost wonder, curiously terrified, more so than he'd ever wish to admit to. He obeys my gnarled and wretched hands, indulging my beckoning and twisting his cool and guiltless fingers between mine, a marriage of malfeasance.
I am no lover. A lover's hand is gentle and persuasive, slowly ebbing the senses to a point of submission; the pretense of such kindness has no place against the rank alleyway bricks and cobblestoned mattresses.
My lips are hot and relentless against his pulse, nipping the pale skin a little too hard, my thigh between his legs a little to forceful. His cry spills from between those swollen, precious lips, dancing out into the night's air and falling somewhere between pleasure and pain. Desire impales me, it's spike ardent and serpentine behind my ears, hissing hedonistically as I rip off the shirt, ravage the skin, leave my mark along every rib he dares still own.
The whispers in my ears, that's what I'll say, they're the ones who guide my hand, wrapping firm around him, taking what was never mine. This time, his cries do not ignite me so, with fingers firmly wrapped across his lips, I determine my pleasure too urgent to satisfy with puerile play.
The chill is bitingly cold but I am heated by my yearning. One hand holding his up high, the other cinched around his hips, holding him still against the barrage of my hips against his. My fingers melt into his butter skin, clinging to the bone and sinuous ligament which holds a body together, gives it form and function. Too hard, they press almost daring the fragile skin to give way beneath them, to succumb in overwhelming compliance to my every wish.
He cries out again, pathetic and lost between the crumbling bricks, tears staining the red and grubby walls. The fear and pain is not lost on me. This is my domain now, punishing and prophetic to us both, to indulge in the pleasure of mystery, of playthings.
When I leave him there, a shattered mess on the floor, sobbing and pleading, he'll call out to me- my name, twisting through the growing space between us- how does he know my name?
The satisfaction of possession throbbing through every vein, I offer no reply, as my boots crunch noisily into the autumn leaves, as I walk away into the night.
Slightly more adult than my usual stuff! I hope you like it nonetheless, please let me know what you thought! Six more parts to follow, one for each sin. Not sure yet if they will all star Dan and Phil, it's a bit strange to write them in this twisted way but please believe this is all purely imagination, no real characteristics are portrayed!
Thanks for reading!
xxx panfs