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The Space Between Us (Mark 2)

June 2, 2012

I wait.
The space between us is charged, feral.
The silence, unbroken but for our ragged breath.
Eons pass in that calamitous turmoil of anticipatory dreams.
Breath baited, I grip and pull at my bonds, just to hear the comfort of the creak of wood, the soft rasp of rope against the grain.
A distraction.

I want.
The space between us is glowing, hot.
Longing too long, I chance a feline lift of the hip, the smallest twist of the spine; the arching plea my muffled mouth cannot voice.
Your disapproval, swift and harsh, opens new avenues of pain to match the ache of wanting. Retribution; punctuated with a flick of the wrist.
The delicious slide of your fingers; stroking, tightening, snaking, tying. A Brutal sleight of hand.
A warning.

I fight.
The space between us is parched, arid.
My struggle is rendered hapless by the cruel softness of your laughter.
You are maddeningly noble in your triumph but lower now, closer.
The slight brush of velvet flesh, and the mingling of our breath calms the riot.
With a push, penetration. Red in tooth, and claw. The lightest of kisses tastes my broken skin.
A reward.

You drink.
The space between us becomes the sum of our parts.

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