Knkstriped

Insatiable

What do you do
when half of you
has too much for one
yet not enough for two?

“More. More. Please.”

You laugh at her relentless lust, and the way it strips her freedom of will; amusement, condescension, the tiniest shard of resentment that your synchronicity has been knocked askew. You’re done. She isn’t.

Yes, you’ve indulged her once already, choking her with your stone-hard dick as she writhes in the grip of three tightly-pinched clamps, flicking at the chain that links them with your favourite little toy, the small-but-severe 5-tail lash which deals a biting sting when it lands at high velocity. She squealed and buried you deeper in her throat, sucking and lurching at the root of you, thirsty for something – your soul, your heart, perhaps your life force itself – to spill out of you, into her.

But still, you can see from the twitch of her mouth and the tilt of her head, she hasn’t yet had her fill of pain and pleasure.

Not even after she came, howling and drooling into your lap when you turned the wand’s power up, her face crushed against your balls with a fistful of her dark curls. Still. Not. Enough.

And you could redouble your efforts, apply the tawse, or the heavy metal paddle; let her scream it out until yells turn to sobs and release carves salty rivers across her cheeks. Or wrap her in gentle warmth, smother the flames with love until only sullen smouldering coals remain. Are you feeling cruel? You could set her aside, dress yourself, return to domesticity; leave her twisting and burning, hot-eyed and snarling with thwarted need.

Here is your dilemma; there you are, sated and logy, comfortably sprawled and floating on a blood-tide of endorphins. There is she, tense with resistance, paranoid about disinterest, desire driving her to plead, cajole, demand, bargain, blackmail; which she will not, knowing from bitter experience the fallacy of sacrificing self-respect for sex.

“Come here.” You open your arms, tuck her beneath your chin, hold her tight until she sighs and softens against you.

“I’m sorry. I can’t keep up with you.”

“I can’t keep up with me either. I’ll live.”

Her tone is resigned, frustration tucked away into some dark corner of her mind. She’s used to it; growing up means accepting that you can’t always get what you want. Snuggling into the crook of your arm, a fragment of song drifts across her mind

but if you try sometimes, you get what you need

When in doubt; choose love.

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