You have a problem. One you would rather not have, one you wish you could ignore, but unfortunately, one you know you have to fix.
Your hands are tight on her hips, olive green bruises in various degrees of fading sprinkled across her skin, all distanced suspiciously similar to the distance between your fingers, and left there from nights before. She's on your hips, keening and mewling, her eyebrows knit together in the intensity of it all. You'd never deny that your kittybitch was one of the sexiest things you'd ever seen, even when she isn't using you to get herself off.
Her back arches, all her muscles drawn taught, and you lift her hips off of you before she can go any further. She whines high and loud, opening her eyes half to glare down at you, thinking you're just being a tease, but your face tells it all.
You're just not into it.
She sets herself back down on your legs, still slick and wet, and shifts to a position where she'd be less tempted to grind herself against your thighs. Her muscles are quivering and she's sobering up real fast. You sigh and roll your head back, unable to even meet her eyes as your bulge finishes re-sheathing itself.
In a huff of frustration she lifts herself off of you completely and goes to finish what you weren't able to.
This wasn't the first time this had happened, truth of the matter was, all those wicked feelings you had about her before, had just vanished. You try to think, you try so motherfucking hard, what made you so flushed for her to begin with?
Through a foggy and ever-shifting timeline of memories you see her delicate hands teaching you a whole new language, and thinking of all the things you could teach her to do with those hands in return. You remember watching that crazy mane of hers sway over nicely rolling hips, and the first night you two had ever shared a bed.
She had cried that night, and you loved every motherfucking second of it. Her mouth was cut up and bleeding, her face contorted into all expressions of pain. Between the two of you every blasphemy was spewed to the high heavens and back; threatened the angels that you'd stab her to death.
You pull your head back up, black matted hair scratching your cheeks and neck, and you run your tongue quickly over your teeth. The door she had disappeared through held no significance to you. You were thankful, you had been blessed that night with her departure. There were no longer any feelings for your Matesprit. Long gone were those fluttery flames of flushed, never had there been the suffocating tar of Kismesisitude, and you prayed that she felt the same way.
