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Once, a girl was like, “Choke me, Daddy,” and I nearly killed her. In my defense, she didn’t specify how hard I should choke her,
My dick doesn’t understand insults, since he has the moral compass of a used condom, and remains standing at attention like an eager kid in class.
He tastes of lawless violence and forbidden temptation. He tastes like my custom-made damnation.
“I’ll devour you fucking whole, my beautiful lotus flower.”
Why on earth can’t I keep my hands off him? Does he have witch blood? Is he made of fucking drugs? “You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, his throat working beneath my fingers. “Your nightmare.” “I hate you.” “I don’t.” “You’re fucking crazy.” “About you,” I whisper against his lips and claim them with a guttural moan.
“You look perfect marked by me. My own piece of fucking art.”
I love it when his beast collides with mine in a fucked-up symphony of violence.
I hate myself. Why don’t you hate me, too?
“Wanna know what you look like when you come?” He speaks against my lips, his breath stroking my skin and his intense eyes swallowing me in their depths. “You look like fucking mine.”
Are you a dog?” “Woof.” He grabs my cheeks with wet fingers. “Let me lick your face.”
“Absolutely, and, baby?” He kisses the top of my head and his next words nearly give me a heart attack. “Even if you hate yourself, I’ll love you for the both of us.”
