Sin and syntax.
Reblogged from rolledtrousers
Oh, this was never supposed to be easy. That would be dull, trite conversations leading to mundane sex and uninteresting curiosity. It would be tallying, adding another note to your book that you can reflect on at some point in the future with a sigh and a half thought, nothing beyond a passing fancy. Easy would be pointless, it would just be whittling wood, passing the time.
If you’re not looking to grow, then you shouldn’t have dug your feet into fertiliser, felt your toes wriggling in the soil, and stretched for the sky. If you didn’t want to develop, you shouldn’t have hung yourself prostrate on my line, blinking in the dark. If you didn’t want to change, you shouldn’t have thrown your clothes on my floor.
I can plant doubt like a seed, and I can let it gnaw at you like only the best ideas do. I can watch it tick over, growing and germinating, until you’re not even half sure of what you half know, a mess of fractions that give ever diminishing returns. I’ll watch you peel yourself apart, until you’re nothing but shivering fruit, waiting to be plucked and put back together again. That’s progress, that’s interesting.
That’s hard. But then all the good things are.
Reblogged from deliciousinterludes
It’s all so quiet.
You and I have slunk off to our opposite corners of this prison cell, and we hide there, backs to each other, pretending we’re alone.
It gives me some relief, to be honest. It tricks me into thinking that perhaps I’ll escape unscathed; that this was all just some surreal night-terror, and you, just a figment of my masturbation.
Shhh. I’m going to lie down here, on the cold stone of the ground. I’ll close my eyes. I’ll think of everything else.
They’ll chain me up and whip me if I dream of you.
Reblogged from rolledtrousers
Dogs Chasing Cars
I’m not supposed to enjoy the chase this much. That’s the sign of a temperament, an inclination, a proclivity towards the act, the thrill, the adrenaline hit that I get when I’m in pursuit. That’s the sign of someone who won’t be satisfied when they catch the object of their desire, when I’ve finally got you. I’ll just go searching again.
But it courses through my veins, when I’m after you. It’s an electric thrill that starts in my chest and rockets down my fingers, to every word that I type, up to my lips, making them fuzz, to every word that I whisper in your ear. The world is vivid, when I haven’t quite got you yet. It feels like I’m on edge, tracking every single detail of every single scene, for the one thing that will make you mine.
The trick, then, isn’t to figure out a way to lock myself down, make me not want to chase any more, geld myself so that the urge to run doesn’t make my leg twitch when I’m asleep.
No, the trick is to never let me stop running. I haven’t got you until you’re down and begging, every piece of yourself offered up on a platter. The girl that always has something left, not held back but just further in, is the one that will keep the electric running over my skin,every hair raised and on edge. A bottomless depth of a person, a midnight blue.
A knowing smile spreads as my fingertips trace over the marks you deftly left.
Lines where the cold steel bit into my flesh before your predatory tongue took its place. Swollen welts courtesy of your flogger. Indents of the ropes you used as restraints. The bruised shape of your teeth on my thighs.
All reminders of how feverishly and wantonly you treated my willing body.
Reblogged from longtallandcute
You’re not here, you’re absent,
and my hand is not like yours.
It’s kind of nice on my own skin
(but not the same, of course)
I think about your breath on me
the warm tickle of hot lips.
The pressure of your body,
the grinding of your hips.
I imagine that you touch me,
eager eyes and eager tongue.
A soft laugh and a soft whisper,
“I want to watch you cum”
I squeeze myself and shudder,
I shake and cum and groan.
I’m lying here, and missing you
It’s much less fun alone.