Category: Crimson Writ

Where my words give lie to the wolf under the skin.

Yes.

My sentiments on this word haven't changed in the last two years.

The first yes is easy, a single concession to a simple request.

The next comes with some hesitancy, for you begin to understand just how far I plan to take you, and now there is an edge of fear to your acquiescence. But it's too late, the yes is already poised, trembling on your lips, and it slips out with a soft gasp. The next yes follows swiftly after, chasing the second, and the next, and the next, until they become a litany, a cry for more, until the very sound of the word is etched in the devotion of your body.

—

Why do I coax you to speak when I have you in my hands? I want to hear it in your voice.

“Why are you bent over my desk?”

You look back at me, eyes half-closed, “For you.”

“Louder.”

A gasp as my hands tighten on your hips, dragging your naked ass back against me, “For YOU.”

“Yes. For me. For me, you are wet. For me, you are ready to beg. Now say it like you mean it.”

Shivering, a low moan, “FOR YOU!”

“Are you sure?”

“YES, YES, YES.”

—

Just say yes.

Yes, you want to be alive, to remind yourself what it is to experience life by defying it, by stepping over the line and forgetting everything but how it feels to exist between one kiss and the next.

Yes, you want to be owned by a moment.

Yes, you want to be pulled in, to drown yourself in whispers and promises. You want hands that will hold you still, that will coax you to life, that will drive you near the edge and hold you there until it is almost unbearable.

Yes, you want someone who isn’t afraid to take what he wants while giving you what you need.

Yes, you want to sin until you are made into a prayer on his lips.

Yes, you want your wrists held, your breath stolen, your body laid out for a thirst that will drink you in and taste the sweetest parts of you.

Abandoned Angel

The funny bit about this poem is that I actually knew exactly what I wanted to say with it. A lot of times I just start writing and sort myself out as I go along. Here…it was different. I wrote it while driving one night and managed to hold it in my head long enough to get home and write it out.

A couple years ago, a friend of mine put it to music and recorded it for me. I can’t do justice to describing how it sounds; if you are curious, there is a link at the bottom of this entry.

***

Some abandoned angel
laying in your bed
will weep within your arms tonight
and wake the voices in your head.

Offer up your promises
Offer up your soul
Offer up salvation
But don’t offer up control.

Offer up your angel’s wings
That she might stay with you tonight
And wrap you safe within her arms
Where her kisses curse and her whispers bite.

Offer up your songs
Sung by the voices that she has stirred
And watch the tears fade away

Some pay in deeds like desperate heroes sent
To save a girl from a devilish bent,
Some pay in fear of another lash,
and some just pay in cold hard cash.

Pay in sin
Suffer again,
All those sad young lives,
Won’t quite fit,
on the head of a pin.

Regret, regret
in words past made
But it won’t get you much
For the silver paid.

For some abandoned angel
Lays weeping in your bed.
For you offer up your angel’s dreams
And gave her yours instead.

You can listen to it here:

[audio:BenScarborough_AngelsWings.mp3]

Into the Quiet

I think we all have a habit of writing stories in our heads. Rehearsing conversations before they happen, re-writing moments long after they are behind us. My stories have a theme. The plots change, but the intent remains the same. Of course, I have to wonder – where does the hero of the story go next? Save a damsel, slay theevil witch, retire to Florida…

…nah. I think I’ll have him seduce the evil witch, have her assist in seducing the damsel next, and then have all three do very wicked things to the local populace. In Florida and elswhere.

Why not? It’s what I would do.

There was quiet in the way he stood behind her, a silence of intent felt not just in the firm grip his hands had on her waist, but in the subtle presence of his body along her back and the heat of his breath tickling the nape of her neck. A quiet born of patience.

She feared and hungered for his hands, his teeth, his lips. For what they brought out of her. For what they reduced her to. She recalled the last time he had come for her. Each time she had felt fingers there when she had expected them here. Each t ime she had gasped in surprise from the sharp sensation of fingernails digging into skin where she had expected a gentle touch. He had written poetry on her thighs and whispered secrets against her breasts. He had pulled her under again and again, letting her up for air just long enough for a single breath before taking her down again. It was in moments made of these, that was she was laid bare and he feasted. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes temptation was a sin worth losing yourself in.

Into the stillness of temptation he spoke.

“Do you remember? Can your skin recall the feel? Yes. Yes, you do, you remember in places you thought well hidden.”

His hands moved gracefully around her waist, meeting in the front; she felt fingers trace the edge of her shirt, tempting the line between fabric and flesh. Just a shirt. Just a shirt between him and her. Carefully, it seemed, his fingers curled around the edge and she felt fingertips brush the surface of her skin.

Her body trembled quietly as she drew in a deep breath, almost scared to breathe while assaulted with the delicate, almost torturing touch of his fingertips. Fingertips moved upwards, under the edge of the shirt, traced along the edge, against bare skin and the top of her thigh. His fingers slid with a slow purpose around to the back and then down along the smooth skin to the back of her knee. Like a whisper, his breath brushed across the back of her neck, the warm presence of his body against her pressed just a bit closer. The subtle shift of his body accompanied his hands as they pressed across the front, shifted positions under the shirt, and found the front of her thighs…

Cost of Temptation, Part II

What price would you pay to feel it?

***

Erin mmms softly, moving as she is directed by your touches. “Well, I do not think you mean to injure me or take my life, so you are not a mortal danger…”

D’jaevle applies more pressure to the back of your thighs, parting them a bit further as his hands rest on your hips now, keeping you steady as he moves, “True.”

Erin sighs softly as you move her, enjoying your warmth against her, contemplating other sorts of dangers…

D’jaevle stops for a moment, and then grips the edge of your jersey, drawing it swiftly along your thighs, bringing the edge dangerously close to your waist and allowing the cool air to meet youur exposed flesh. He keeps the jersey there, his knee slipping up now against your naked thighs, pressing them further apart and forcing you to adjust your stance wider to remain standing.

Erin gasps, suddenly cold where cloth had shielded her flesh. She shrinks back from the cold air, pushing her bare hips back against you. Then she shifts, parting her legs more as you force her open. She steadies herself by clutching at you with one hand, leaning back against you.

D’jaevle relaxes, taking the weight of your body as you move back, “Miss this?”

Erin nods, arching up to nuzzle at you. “Missed everything,” she murmurs softly.

D’jaevle shifts his weight, his body moving from behind you to stand in front. “How restless are you?” His eyes, dark and silent, watch you.

Erin looks up at you, eyes alight as she studies your form before her. “Can you not tell, my dear?”

D’jaevle presses you back a step until you feel the wall behind you, “Yes – but tell me.”

Erin straightens as the cold wall greets her flesh, and she smiles up at you. “Restless enough to want you to take me…” she whispers.

D’jaevle moves his knee up against your thighs, pressing them open to welcome it, his thigh slipping slowly inward, until you feel your heat rest against him, the edge of his shorts brushing your thigh as his bare skin meets you. “How much do you want it?”

Erin trembles mmmms , sliding her hands along your flesh. Her cheeks are flushed with warmth, as is the whole of her body. “I am beyond wanting, now, my sweet… I hunger for you…”

D’jaevle leans inward, his thigh shifting, rubbing against you once, twice, sliding as his hands graze the edge of your ass, barely touching the skin as it meets the wall.

Erin mmmms softly, pressing herself straight against the wall as you tease her. She tries to read your calm eyes, seeking something within them.

D’jaevle continues the pressure, his thigh driving in a bit deeper, slightly faster as you feel it against you, urging you to ride against him.

Erin gasps, letting herself press against your driving leg, caressed and pushed by your flesh. Her eyes slip closed as she enjoys the thrusting contact.

D’jaevle speaks softly, as he leans into you, “Do you need this?” His thigh presses hard, deeper as you feel his skin slip against the moist heat between your legs, causing your ass to slip from the wall and them press back against it with slap.

Erin gasps as she moves back to the wall so suddenly, bracing herself against you. “Yes,” she moans, voice losing its softness as her need grows.

D’jaevle keeps you pressed to the wall, his hands on your waist as he moves inward, letting his knee drive faster, “How bad?”

Erin leans up to you, kissing you with hard fierceness that betrays her almost animal need. Her body rocks with your knee, rubbing against it in desperation.

Erin struggles to catch her breath, trying to force this hunger into speech. “I ache… I am empty… I need to be filled…” she murmurs, knowing words are inadequate…

D’jaevle slowly moves away, his knee moist from you as he regards you standing there against the wall, “How do I make you feel?”

Erin looks up at you, hands now braced against the wall. “Hungry… alive… safe and in fear at once…”

D’jaevle watches you, his gaze like a touch as he slowly looks down over your body, from your bare legs, to the rumpled jersey half above your waist, half falling down again. “I thought I was no danger; why fear?”

Erin says, “Fear of discovery, of harming those I love by craving your touch as well…”

D’jaevle slowly walks to stand in front of you, his finger lightly tracing your cheek, down to your neck, “Dos the fear make you even wetter?”

Erin straightens as your finger passes, and nods. “It does,” she admits softly.

D’jaevle slowly slips finger down to your lips, running across, “How much?”

Erin shivers, writhing. “Oh, gods…” she sighs, eyes closing. “I’m soaking wet…”

D’jaevle leans inward, so closer, you can feel his warm breath against your skin, “It makes you so wet, doesn’t it? The fear, my touch?”

Erin nods, looking up at you, trembling where she stands.

D’jaevle smiles and slowly kisses you, once, his lips meeting yours slowly, yet parting so that you can feel his tongue slip against your lips, teasing you as it finds its way to met yours, once, and then draws back.

D’jaevle moves over to you, standing in front of you as you rest against the wall, “How loud are you when you go over the edge in RL?”

Erin smiles up at you. “Why do you ask?”

D’jaevle looks at you for a moment and then runs his hand down across the front of your jersey, his palm tracing the contour of your breast slowly, finding each curve as his fingers impress the cloth. “You really want to know?”

Erin smiles. “Of course I do…”

D’jaevle leans closer, his palms pressing right against you, finding your nipples through the fabric, his palms cup, rubbing hard against you. “Because I want to know how you’ll feel when you hear my voice as you lie on your bed, or floor, or chair, and I make you feel so wet and hot you beg me to let you cum. I’ll make you scream, and I’ll make you whisper.”

Erin mmmms softly, arching to press her breasts into your hands, a sly smile creeping across her lips. “Such a devilish tease, my dear…”

D’jaevle slips his hands lower, to the edge of your jersey, drawing it up slowly that his hands may find the skin underneath, slowly tracing the skin to your breasts, feeling his bare hands against you as his palms slip down, tracing each nipple, “Don’t like my teasing?”

Erin moans softly, head tilting back against the wall. “I never said that, my sweet,” she sighs, eyes half-lidded. “I rather enjoy it…”

D’jaevle curls his fingers against your breasts, his palm rubbing inward as you feel it capture your nipple, back and forth as he moves, “Shall I offer more?”

Erin ooohs, nodding, as she presses a hand over yours under the jersey. “Please do,” she whispers.

D’jaevle leans in closer, his hands warm against your skin, his breath soft against your neck. His fingertips slowly move around each nipple, drawing them out, teasing them to hardness, “Shall I tell you more of what I would do if I had you on the phone?”

Erin nods slowly, tilting her head to bare her throat to you. “Yes,” she hisses softly.

D’jaevle draws his teeth over your skin, biting lightly, his tongue moving to sooth the skin as he teases. Fingers draw a bit tighter on your nipples, rolling them now, “I would have you lie there, dressed, and then instruct you on how to draw off each article, making your need greater with each piece removed. Or maybe I’d just have you as you are now, ready to be fucked, with just a gesture to push your shirt up.”

Erin smiles, writhing as you graze her with your teeth and tug at her with your hands. “You like me as I am now, ready and waiting for you?”

D’jaevle slides a hand down to your thighs, his fingers sliding right across your inner lips, pressing deep against you, rubbing once, slowly, against you, and then moves his moist fingers back up, “Yes.”

Erin moans softly as you press into her, eyes closing slowly. “I have to go. My husband just woke up.””
Erin has disconnected.

Cost of Temptation, Part I

There is a theme in these conversations. They are testaments to the trust we place in the words we share. To give ourselves over to the visceral feel of another. Of someone whose touches are broad strokes on a canvas of desire.

Who are these people? They are real. They are real in a way that the mundane moments of each day are not. They linger, restless memories that remind us that there is more to life then another damn day of routine. More to life then the increasing number of concessions made to get by. They are the best and the worst of us.

***

D’jaevle speaks softly, right by your ear, “Tell me how you are dressed then.”

Erin smiles. “A black mesh jersey from the All-Star Cafe in Orlando. Nothing else.”

D’jaevle laughs, his hands slipping about your waist, “You do tempt, I must say.” His fingers slip down, palms pressing across your thighs as he draws the shirt up slightly, an inch or so, drawing it over your skin.

Erin mmmms softly, arching back against you as your warm hands slip over her skin. “Tempt? I speak but the truth…”

D’jaevle curls his fingers just under the edge of the jersey, fingers meeting the warm flesh of your thighs as his lips brush your ear, moist and teasing, “Nothing, you say?”

Erin nods slowly, shivering as your lips brush against her. “Nothing,” she repeats, eyes slipping closed.

D’jaevle gently, lightly, lets you feel his fingertips along your inner thigh, pressing against your skin as you feel how close he is. He shifts with you, his fingers teasing across your thigh, moving upward until he can feel the heat between your legs, not quite touching, his fingers spread. “Still feel restless?”

Erin gasps softly, shifting her stance slightly to allow your fingers more places to caress. She reaches one arm back to brush over your hip, light fingers caressing you. She nods slowly, pressing herself back against you. “Even more, now…” she whispers.

D’jaevle ever so slowly works his hand upward, still remaining to the side as he traces your pelvis, moving to your stomach, under your shirt, “You should be careful…”

Erin mrrrrs, eyes fluttering open to regard you. “Why do you say that?”

D’jaevle presses his hand in, palm flat against your stomach, and then slips it down until you feel his fingertips brush against the soft hair, “Do you not find me dangerous?”

Erin shivers again as your hands caress her, looking up at you. “Should I? You’ve done naught to make me mistrust you…” Erin writhes a little, body responding to each touch. “Danger implies threat, and you’ve posed no threat to me…”

D’jaevle curls his fingers, letting you feel each individual fingertip just at the edge. He moves against your back, closer, until you feel the outline of his body against you, his fingers slipping away, up your stomach, “How do you feel?”

Erin murmurs, “Aroused… relaxed… safe with a friend…”

D’jaevle pauses, his lips slipping over the edge of your ear, teeth grazing as you feel him tug, his body close, “There are many kinds of danger.” He lowers his lips to your neck again, parting them ever so slightly. His lips leave a small moist trail across your throat, moving down your shoulder to the edge of your shirt, his voice right by your ear, “Part your thighs for me, there on your chair.”

Erin smiles softly, doing so before nodding. She shivers, feeling you closer to her, holding you with her caressing hand. “So there are,” she murmurs. “Which danger do you embody?”

D’jaevle presses against you, his body a silhouette of heat along side yours, “Which do you think?”

Stilled

I don’t let myself fall in love anymore.

I never have less control over myself and my surroundings as when I am in love; such a lack of control leaves me confused, disoriented. Vulnerable.

It is beautiful – beautiful in the way a dark terrible storm will rage and thunder but in it’s wake is a world cleansed and changed. Leaves torn from trees are scattered across the doorstep but those that survive fairly glisten with green and life. Nothing quites feels, tastes, smells as clean and right as the world just after a storm.

And yet it scares me. It scares me where little else does.

This was a goodbye letter that wasn’t quite goodbye.

***

4-27-98

Stilled.
once this

favored my quiet need
but now it follows
another man

and
what little left is
here?
When all is said and done.

I’ll tell you what it is to fuck
I’ll take you to the wall and nail you there
Leaving us to grip
our heads and hair and gnash our teeth on the unforgiving drive of a thing dispossesed.

The cold hard press of wall is the only support for two cruel wanting bodies. If we bite the edge and teethe on the bare honesty of two souls in heat. Perhaps the naked truth will be found in the blood and sweat left smeared against the wall.

Terror is in the eyes of one who can push you over into this, basest of all indulgences. On your knees, on your fucking knees, perhaps you will find what is left of our torn and tattered paper personalities because only animals can understand what it is to be taken so completely in a moment, crushing all else in mind, body and soul, to make them yours in a manner that leaves no question. Speak of one, of self, and you deny that there exists, in the rough grip of our most disputed and hidden desires the truth that the only absolution might well be found in the last copulation of this moment. Maybe fucking is the only absolute, saying in the most certain of terms that there is nothing more real.

I’ll tell you what it is for me to love

Love is in the middle
Of a place with no middle ground

Love is acquiescence.
Love is accepting the impossible.
That I can hold something so pure as trust that there is a tomorrow where the only thing that has changed is
how I choose to like you that day.

I cannot believe in love for me.

But the proof is in the doing
And you were there
And I was there
And perhaps I am wrong.
Perhaps it is just a beginning.

And there are worse things then being absolutely fucked

And to unknowingly love.

Checkmate

In my position, I must always be one step ahead of the game. When playing, it doesn’t matter what side of the board each piece is on; what is important is knowing what is possible with each piece in play. Where each move can lead. Grasp this, and it doesn’t matter if you control the board – you can make sure the end game is in your favor.

The truth of the matter is that recently, to keep both the queen and the king on the board, I have been playing a more passive role then I am used to; waiting to see where each move will lead.

Generally, playing passively will not, ultimately, win the match. But there are times where it is more valuable to bide one’s time so that a piece can be subjugated and made captive. Does she see the hidden lines, the invisible net on the board? Does she fall into the carefully laid trap or take the safer path?

***

The safer path is to stop reading now.

The safer path is to not let fear and desire find their way any deeper; they are dangerous, and together they can rip you apart.

The safer path does not go through dark woods; it does not remind you of your hunger to be consumed. To be held down. To be naked and exposed under eyes that see all of you; and then, taking all, leaves you ready to be filled with words that will have you craving release; wanting it, *needing* it. A hunger only satisfied when you have given in and offered yourself to the unyielding weight of someone who can take it from you.

The safer path does not lead you into places too dark to see your own hands, where the hands that are needed to keep you from the sins in the shadows may feed you to them instead. In the darkness, there is no place to hide. Here, you are given the freedom to indulge without being judged. You have no choice, it is demanded of you.

The safer path is to not respond to this, to forget you read it, to go on with your life.

Baptized by Music

Music is life to me. In my youth, I led a relatively sheltered life in regards to music. My first three tapes were gifts: MC Hammer, Paula Abdul, and Janet Jackson. I listened to MC Hammer once and threw it out. Paula Abdul lasted a few weeks beyond that before getting tossed.

But I listened to Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation so many times that I wore the tape out.

The part in Iron Eagle where the kid flying the F-15 has a hard time hitting targets until he puts on a headset and blasts a mix-tape and suddenly hits every damn target while rocking out? Loved that. The love scene in Lost Boys where the choir of children sang ‘Cry Little Sister’? Blew me away.

I’m preaching to the converted of course; most blogs today have a ‘What I am Listening To’ blurb somewhere. We understand the importance of music. It saves us. It condemns us. It understands us. The right song can rip you apart. The right song can be an oasis of sanity in a day of hell.

Tonight, I’m drinking to music.

***

I want to be baptized by music.

I want music that will fuck my brain so hard I have to crawl out of my skin to feel the tension.

I want music that will make a slut out of my anger.

I want music that will make me cum.

I want music that will make me bleed.

I want music that has an aftertaste that will make me vomit it back up as poetry.

Sometimes

Sometimes I forget.

I forget how it is to want something.

I forget what it is I want.

It is impossible to stop human nature. People change. Feelings change. Thoughts change.

But it is possible to pervert human nature. To adjust its course. To put up a dam or two and watch how thoughts and actions alter course.

Sometimes you can stand in the river, an obstacle yourself, and despite the current, stand utterly still.

And wait.

***

Sometimes I forget how beautiful you are. There are nights that I fall asleep and I want to feel your warm bare body curled into mine.

Sometimes I forget how good it is to have my hand around your neck.

Sometimes I forget that smile, when you let yourself love me more then you should. That slightly mischevious look over cards, or dinner, or just talking.

Sometimes, it is even enough.

“I’m not entirely submissive…”

People have a tendency to want to change the people they are with. But it never works out the way they think it is going to. The irony is that the very things that attract them to a person – the rogue or wench in them – are the qualities that they want reshaped into something more…manageable.

My humble opinion? Accept them as they are. Just by being with someone, you are naturally going to rub off on them (and vice versa). If anything, work to cultivate the differences. Differences are exciting. Differences create confrontation (and confrontation is not a bad thing! Confrontation does not have to mean argument or fight. It means two forces are meeting – and often, when forces meet, sparks fly. Sparks are good.).

Novels would be very uninteresting if the protagonist reached the climax of the story only to tell the bad guy that they are more then welcome to nuke New York, sell the girl into white slavery, and go on being their bad self – because hey, the protaganist was moving to Tijuana anyways, the girl was a nag, and that Nietzsche guy had the right idea about the strong.

Hey…I kind of like that story. I think need to work on my supporting examples a bit more….

***

Hannah tips her head as she feels your eyes on her, soft pink of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as she waits for a reaction. She blushes softly as she feels your eyes on her and licks her lips again, “So was it what you expected to see?”

D’jaevle watches you, his eyes traveling your body slowly, from the ring on your toe to the curve of your breasts. “Yes. A collar, even if of gold.” He pauses, then chuckles, “I so seldom indulge myself these days…but you are so inviting.” He turns, fully facing you, closing the distance between himself and you – so close, you are forced to step back, finding the wall behind you.

Hannah purrs a bit as her hand moves up to stroke her collar. She looks at you with wide eyes – and then gasps as her back touches the wall. She swallows, refusing to look down or away. “There is something else you should know about me…” she murmurs, eyes sparkling. She laughs softly, placing her hands on your chest and sliding them slowly up to your shoulders. They continue around to the back of your neck and she exerts a small pressure, pulling your head towards hers. “I’m not entirely submissive…” she purrs just before her lips brush across yours.

D’jaevle meets your lips slowly, parting to enjoy the taste, sharing the hunger with the slip of his tongue lightly along your lower lip. He speaks against your lips, “Oh?”

Hannah mmms, her lips parting softly, invitingly as she presses her body against yours, softness melting against you. She laughs softly and suckles your lower lip into her mouth, giving it a little nip. “You’d be surprised how many that are into the ‘lifestyle’ in any way that scares away…”

D’jaevle allows his eyes to close briefly, enjoying the kiss, fingers tightening on your lower back as he keeps you against the wall, “Which is why I don’t indulge too often…I dislike boundaries, or conventions. I admire intelligence.” D’jaevle adjusts his position, knee moving along your thighs, resting at their apex, parting them slightly, his expression amused, “And a sense of humor.” His hands run up over your sides, coming to rest on the wall behind you. His thigh applies a slow pressure you, parting your legs, “Offer me something. Your name.”

Hannah‘s laugh turns into a gasp as she finds herself riding your thigh. She trembles, the urge to lower herself down and truly ride you almost overwhelming. She growls softly, deep in her throat, the slow flush that started at her cheeks spreading down. She raises her eyes to yours and tips her head curiously, “Mmm, my name…that is offering a lot, truly…” She looks into your eyes, searching. She must like what she sees because she smiles softly and murmurs, “Jessi.”

D’jaevle suddenly presses his knee up, resting tightly against you, without warning. His eyes are on yours as he leans closer and lowers his lips to yours, meeting them parted, teeth grazing your lower lip, “You feel the need, don’t you? The burning.”

Hannah kisses you hungrily, body pulsing with need, “Yes…” she whispers huskily, “Oh yes…” She rides your thigh, twisting her hips as she grinds down onto it, her juices starting to soak into the pantleg of your slacks. She cries out softly, arching towards you, her soft curves trapped to pleasantly between you and the wall. She bites her lower lip and moans, pleasure coursing through her like a shock wave. She clings to you, grinding her hips down onto your thigh as she begins to pant softly. Her fingers slide up into your hair and she whimpers with need, “Please…” whispers as she tangles her fingers in your hair and pulls you down for a kiss.

D’jaevle thrusts his knee harder, driving it in as one hand slips down along your back, tracing your ass, palm pressing into the cheek, his mouth moving against yours, quick hungry kisses, “How far does it go with me, how far do you want it to go?”

Hannah trembles against you, then looks up at you eyes wide and trusting and full of desire, “Please…as far as you can take me…” She buries her face into the crook of your neck and nuzzles you, body quivering on the edge. She whimpers.

D’jaevle relaxes his knee, keeping you on the edge, fingers curled against your ass, holding you there. His eyes burn into yours as he holds you steady, “Tell me you need more.”

Hannah’s heart races and she nods, “I need more…how much more do you want of me?”

D’jaevle lets his fingers dance against your skin, just at the entrance from behind, “I want to hear your breathing, your hunger, your words. For now. I want you to hear my vision, driving you.”

Hannah trembles feeling your fingers driving her wild. She licks her dry lips and leans back against the wall, back arching deeply and thrusting her breasts towards you, “Tell me what you want me to do…”