Trainspotting

I arranged the sticks into a pentagram, before ripping a hole in your fishnets.  The smell of damp soil rose up.  I kept my shoes on, my jeans bunched around my ankles, clamping them together.  I’m supposed to be the Dom, but here you are in total control, telling me how you want to be coerced.  Rain patters on the leaves above.

I grip handfuls of mud, bunching under my fingernails.  With every thrust I drive you further away.  I can feel you writhing and wiggling to get back into position.  You spread your legs wider, digging your heels into the small of my back, and suddenly my kidneys are gone.  I’m winded, gasping, but you gasp harder even as I feel everything dying.  I run my hands quickly down my flanks, one at a time, to check you haven’t strapped blades to your feet and sliced me open.

Somehow, I get a second wind, and then I realise I’ve overcorrected.  Like a car on ice, I’m now heading the wrong way, and exploding.  Climbing quickly off, I plant two fingers inside you and finish it until you buck and cry and yank at my hair.  As we catch our breath, I smear blood in a Roman two down your stomach.

We dress and dust ourselves off.  Above us, a boy has appeared at one of the windows.  You nuzzle me and ask think we traumatised him? 

He looks like I did once. 

We cuddle.  We laugh.  He stares, transfixed.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me. View all posts by jimmicampkin