[F4A] 'Synchronism'

Transcript

It's the buzz of your breath on my neck, the way my pulse jumps when you skim your kneaded hands across my arms, up, up to cup my throat, and look at me with those eyes that have seen worlds I can't even comprehend. It's worship on my part, no matter what you're doing to me. It's worship in that I am devoted to you, that I bend under your fingertips without resistance.

I'm pliant to your whims and eager, so eager, to submit to anything you'd want from me. I should resist. I should.

You aren't what I'm supposed to need, but yes, your mouth is at the pulse of me and I'm leaning in, wordlessly begging as my breathing hikes and I'm trying not to beg. It's too soon, and so soon, that you'd laugh at me like you always do when I bend under the whim of your desires, the supplicant eager to give you everything. You get your hands in my hair, your fingers weathered and dry but strong, digging into my scalp, pulling until I'm bent back, drawn like a bow.

I am the arrow. I don't know where you mean to set me loose, but I tremble, eager to do your bidding. You're drawing me back, arched, until my head hits the back of the couch and you're half on top of me.

In my passions, you're weightless. I want more, more pressure, more pulling, my back curling further the harder you tug. Your mouth is mapping my clavicle, your humid breath painting across the ball of my shoulder.

Where did my shirt go? And I'm squirming, trapped. I want more.

With you I always want more, and yet you keep me hung, poised, stuck, the pendulum held between your lips as I wait for you to set me free. I'm aching now. My thighs are spreading because the press of jeans just isn't enough.

I hear a zipper slowly drawn, the sound of a buckle clinking free. I'm wet to hear both, wet and excited to the point of shaking. I'm biting my lip and breathing hard through my nose, whimpering at the back of my throat, choking off the noise because, goddammit, I know you're fishing for it.

To punish me, you bite me right where my jaw meets my ear. I buck under you. Now I'm begging, and yes, you do laugh at me, played like a damned bandolin, spilling the notes you diligently strum from my body.

You're not even stroking every string and already I'm bending. I'm wanting to spread and expose and reveal and give you everything you could ever ask and more besides. I hate this.

I hate how easy it's always been for you to wind me up and spiral me so high it takes nothing. It's easy, painfully so. My hands grip your hips.

You roll them under my hands and smirk at me. I love that. I love that smug, son-of-a-bitch look you get, like yeah, you know I'm completely in your thrall and, oh baby, just hold tight, we've only just started.

Fuck you. Fuck you for making my skin sing like it never belonged to me in the first place, like you were born with the manual of me tattooed right behind those eyelids with your long lashes and bedroom eyes. Fuck you and yes, fuck me, because it's taking everything I have not to claw through the parchment of your flesh and surrender, jeans still on, hair down, panting, whining, begging with those eyes you love and that mouth you can't stop sipping from.

Please, please, please, give in to me, I want to say, give in to me in a way I can see. Show me how you find all these strings, how you tug them with a glance or a touch or a phrase. It's not fair.

It never was. There's no time to savor your victory. You're smirking again and your nails are digging into the base of my spine, reversing the arch of my back.

I'm trying to wrap my legs around you. You're writhing into me just to see me go blank with arousal. Bastard.

It never matters how this ends. It starts the same, always, and ends on varying notes of oh my fucking god you broke my brain. Sometimes you actually get inside me before I break.

Other days, my release is the sole purpose. Sometimes it's your control that's the only thing that matters. And then there are the early evenings that bleed into the sunrise, where you aren't content to break me once, but dozens of times, only finding your release when I can barely move.

When I'm spent beyond thinking and my dazed, twitching, useless body turns you on because you did this to me. Other days, it's slow rocking and soft kisses, punctuated by keening wails as you whisper wait, wait, don't come yet, don't baby, just hold on. And there are those spare minutes when you need to get off and leave bruises on my skin, have me screaming in frantic, desperate bliss that borders on sharp agony.

My favorite moments are when you lose control and break before you mean to. I gloat, I always do, because then you punish me for it, and those are the best times. Maybe you're not healthy for me by traditional conventions.

Maybe I need to break it off and walk away. But we spiral so high it's hard to let it go. We sing so perfectly together, me bending and you taking, you pushing and me arching to receive.

It's perfection, it's timeless, this dance, so very precious in its synchronism. I would walk through whatever field of glass or fire you'd put before me if this was at the end of it. It's insane, I'm broken, I'm in love, and you have those reins wrapped around your fist, the heel of your foot pushed against the pounding of my heart.

Calloused fingertips dig into my shoulders and it's time for me to shatter for you. I surrender, and your supplicant wheezes your name around a release so intense I go blind. Jeans still on, hair down, panting, begging with these eyes you love and that mouth you can't stop moaning into.