(no subject)
Nov. 17th, 2013 11:46 pmNeph pulled a special book from his desk, and quill that needed no hand to write. This side project of his wasn't the most creative diversion, but sometimes the classics were the best. He was sure the time and method were worth the task. Calcici of the Yellow was growing steadily more and more wary of Jalan of the Blue, who was already standoff-ish and paranoid of the Yellow Wizard's intentions on Jalan's favored 'student'.
With a smile, Neph dictated the newest passage of 'evidence' for Calcici to stumble across.
He’s a hawk, my lover. All gold and brown and fierce freedom in the body of a young deity. He moves with assurity, with a leopards grace. And if it weren’t for the fact he is indelibly mine, I’d cut out every set of eyes that dare to pass over him. He’s mine to covet, and I do.
I love the way he feels, wrapped in my arms, body moving hungrily against my own in the night. There is no more beautiful sight than the sweat slicked curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, his bruised mouth gasping for air as I press into him again and again. He’s a hawk, and as he cries out my name in broken mewls I can almost see his soul in flight.
His voice is a low rumbling purr, liquid sex. When he rides me he whispers the coarsest, crudest things he knows, filthy gutter talk a sirens song. He tells me everything he wants me to do, everything he dreams about doing to me, all the dirty little fantasies that parade through his mind. He’s got quite the imagination. Times like this I can almost be persuaded to follow up on some of them.
Only some.
I’ll never hurt him, even if he wants me to, even if he begs. And I can make him beg. Roll him over and dig my fingers into the harsh line of his hip, punish him with the full weight of my body behind my thrusts, pound him screaming into the bed sheets with his legs on my shoulders and his muscles straining against the bend. He’s more flexible than he lets on, but the stretch still burns.
I want to own him. I want to buckle a little black collar around his throat and watch him struggle to breath as I force him to ecstasy over and over until he collapses. With nothing but my fingers. Maybe my tongue. I want him to call me master and mean it, seek me out for his every desire, call my name in painful rapture. I could break him to my will. I have dreams about it.
I can’t do it.
He’s a hawk. Wolves perhaps can be leashed, chained to a man and his whims without loosing their spirits, but to clip the wings of a raptor; sacrilege. Murder. He’d die for my amusement but he’d still die inside and I can’t hurt him. Not even enough to make him come in my clenching fist. It would be too easy. Too easy to start and never stop.
Forcing my way into him, tearing him open enough to fit inside and stroke that place that sets flames to the mind, that’s all I can do. Tie tethers of white hot pleasure around his talons and break him open with bliss, watch the glaze of satisfaction cover his eyes while I grit my teeth against his name. He’ll fly away. But he’ll come back.
Or I’ll hunt him down.
The book was Jalan's personal diary, it detailed much of his life, it was bound in his personal wards, the penmanship was his own hand. It was kept in the locked foot box Jalan favored on the training field...
Except that Jalan had never seen it before, it was perfect.
His back curved, arms braced against the rough stone wall, head bowed to bare his neck to hungry fangs, legs curled under him, straining to rise and ease the passage for the hard length attempting to plow him straight through the floor.
Claws dug into his hip, though they tried to be gentle. Each downward thrust struck home with a gust of wind as ebony wings beat in time to the jerking hips slammed into his pelvis.
Decimate had just enough control not to do damage, each growl a mix of apology and need. The chimera was trembling, battling instinct while seeking release, the scent of sex both encouragement and deterrent, the feeling of hot flesh appeasement and inflammatory.
Scalding, burning heat poured into his passage, liquid agony where he’s torn open, white seed mixing with crimson blood. The brutal rhythm slows but doesn’t stop, the spear buried in willing flesh twitching, a touch to mimic the whines of pain and pleasure echoing in the room. It’s painful, oh gods so very painful to be used this way, but the dark furred creature grinding it’s fangs to keep from tearing bites from his hide *is* trying to hold back.
The claws eased, sliding out of the furrows in his muscle to clamp down on flesh merely bruised from the initial tussle. The sheets are soaked in sweat and semen, the air thick with the aroma of musk, fur and tears.
“That... went better than I imagined.” His voice is a raspy ghost fluttering about the air before sinking into the bare stone walls. His lover makes no motion of understanding, only lashes a barbed tail viciously against the side of the bed before resuming the order of the day.
With a smile, Neph dictated the newest passage of 'evidence' for Calcici to stumble across.
He’s a hawk, my lover. All gold and brown and fierce freedom in the body of a young deity. He moves with assurity, with a leopards grace. And if it weren’t for the fact he is indelibly mine, I’d cut out every set of eyes that dare to pass over him. He’s mine to covet, and I do.
I love the way he feels, wrapped in my arms, body moving hungrily against my own in the night. There is no more beautiful sight than the sweat slicked curve of his spine, the flutter of his lashes, his bruised mouth gasping for air as I press into him again and again. He’s a hawk, and as he cries out my name in broken mewls I can almost see his soul in flight.
His voice is a low rumbling purr, liquid sex. When he rides me he whispers the coarsest, crudest things he knows, filthy gutter talk a sirens song. He tells me everything he wants me to do, everything he dreams about doing to me, all the dirty little fantasies that parade through his mind. He’s got quite the imagination. Times like this I can almost be persuaded to follow up on some of them.
Only some.
I’ll never hurt him, even if he wants me to, even if he begs. And I can make him beg. Roll him over and dig my fingers into the harsh line of his hip, punish him with the full weight of my body behind my thrusts, pound him screaming into the bed sheets with his legs on my shoulders and his muscles straining against the bend. He’s more flexible than he lets on, but the stretch still burns.
I want to own him. I want to buckle a little black collar around his throat and watch him struggle to breath as I force him to ecstasy over and over until he collapses. With nothing but my fingers. Maybe my tongue. I want him to call me master and mean it, seek me out for his every desire, call my name in painful rapture. I could break him to my will. I have dreams about it.
I can’t do it.
He’s a hawk. Wolves perhaps can be leashed, chained to a man and his whims without loosing their spirits, but to clip the wings of a raptor; sacrilege. Murder. He’d die for my amusement but he’d still die inside and I can’t hurt him. Not even enough to make him come in my clenching fist. It would be too easy. Too easy to start and never stop.
Forcing my way into him, tearing him open enough to fit inside and stroke that place that sets flames to the mind, that’s all I can do. Tie tethers of white hot pleasure around his talons and break him open with bliss, watch the glaze of satisfaction cover his eyes while I grit my teeth against his name. He’ll fly away. But he’ll come back.
Or I’ll hunt him down.
The book was Jalan's personal diary, it detailed much of his life, it was bound in his personal wards, the penmanship was his own hand. It was kept in the locked foot box Jalan favored on the training field...
Except that Jalan had never seen it before, it was perfect.
His back curved, arms braced against the rough stone wall, head bowed to bare his neck to hungry fangs, legs curled under him, straining to rise and ease the passage for the hard length attempting to plow him straight through the floor.
Claws dug into his hip, though they tried to be gentle. Each downward thrust struck home with a gust of wind as ebony wings beat in time to the jerking hips slammed into his pelvis.
Decimate had just enough control not to do damage, each growl a mix of apology and need. The chimera was trembling, battling instinct while seeking release, the scent of sex both encouragement and deterrent, the feeling of hot flesh appeasement and inflammatory.
Scalding, burning heat poured into his passage, liquid agony where he’s torn open, white seed mixing with crimson blood. The brutal rhythm slows but doesn’t stop, the spear buried in willing flesh twitching, a touch to mimic the whines of pain and pleasure echoing in the room. It’s painful, oh gods so very painful to be used this way, but the dark furred creature grinding it’s fangs to keep from tearing bites from his hide *is* trying to hold back.
The claws eased, sliding out of the furrows in his muscle to clamp down on flesh merely bruised from the initial tussle. The sheets are soaked in sweat and semen, the air thick with the aroma of musk, fur and tears.
“That... went better than I imagined.” His voice is a raspy ghost fluttering about the air before sinking into the bare stone walls. His lover makes no motion of understanding, only lashes a barbed tail viciously against the side of the bed before resuming the order of the day.