Framed in a Stare: 3/3- Famine and Fuck
When the desert tried to reclaim itself, she pushed back—heat too intense to intrude, truth too fierce to hide.
I grinned to myself, watching her stretched against the stupid restraints, head hanging, tits still catching the tremor still riding her body, twitching here, pulling there. Her breath, begging over her almost ruin. What do you call a ruined ruin? I think her cunt was crying. Hurt. As if something had been stolen from her. Like finding a treasure that was never yours to keep. I wanted to fuck her like that, but she hadn’t...