Poking the Beast

Like the wind, He slips in and out, gusts of pleasure and torment followed by deadening silence. She never knows when He will come for her… or how He will enrapture her. Her mind aches for the twists and turns brought by His merciless teasing. His inconsistency and lack of rules. His only rule… she will never be His.

He torments her with endless contact and mental gymnastics as He finds his way deeper into the confines of her mind. She pokes the Beast trying to elicit His primal instinct to devour His prey. Even in not being His, she is His. He controls her thoughts of Him, leaving her always with a hint of desire.

He twists her arms harshly behind her back when she prods too far… when it pleases Him to use her enough to keep her under His control. He hurts her, brings her so much pain as she continues to poke Him. He slips away, yet again, leaving her with a body so desirous of Him she can barely breathe and her heart aching for more. Gusting in again with a tender touch, a kind word… He tortures her with the pleasure and pain of knowing He will not stay nor fulfill her desire completely. He lives silently in the confines of her mind always waiting for her willingness to see His silent domination.

She cannot run, nor hide from Him. He is always there. He is always waiting for her. She is always safe in the perfect storm of His inconsistency. One day He will disappear for good, but not until a gale wind has shattered her to pieces. Her heart, body, soul destructed by the forces of His control…which she cannot escape nor desires to leave.

Brutally and gently, He lulls her into submission. She knows not His face, nor His name. The mystery doesn’t matter. She knows the feeling of his touch on her skin. Painful scratches and lashes upon her smooth white skin soothed with his gentle tongue. His words challenge her to think and feel beyond her comfort, yet she cannot flee. She lays her heart and body for Him to devour. He takes only what He wants, leaving her painfully in want.

Arms around her, pulling her close, disappearing into the night only to return when she eagerly calls for Him again, always telling her she cannot, nor will not ever be His. The longing aches deepest in the confines of her mind, leaving her to wonder what it feels to be entirely His. Her body desires His sweet torture of painful tenderness and delicious pain rapturing her entirely until she begs to cum, knowing He will slip away silently into the night long before He takes her, claims her entirely, makes her His.

She fails to see that she *is* His. She cannot leave. He tells her to go, offers her the key to freedom, yet she is bound by the strings set forth in her mind by His nimble fingers which hold her far tighter than any lock and chains ever could. She longs to be His in the ways she desires, yet she already is His. So blind to her devotion, she pokes Him desiring to be His…..

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