We are violent together, a swirling tranquil disease. We riddle each others blood in poisonous bouts of infection. When we fuck we stare hard into each others eyes. I sink my teeth into his flesh. He drives his fingers inside me.
I write this now ragged and sore plagued with swollen tenderness. The seam of my jeans pushing tightly into my bruised and engorged groin. I have been used. I feel over used. I am perfect and unfortunately in love.
I cannot resist him. His lips stroke my tongue when we kiss. He knocks my legs apart and fucks me bent over furniture and fixtures or just plain bent over. I sit on his lap and we rock effortlessly. There are waves of crashing pleasure. There is doting compliance. There is skill and passion and favour.
I am his. He owns me. My body is his, he has that too. He grooms me and makes me perfection for his tastes. I am perfect, now. I feel it.
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