"You make the chaos in me quiet and calm."
https://youtu.be/5hZi0PrqqsE
Your legs wrapped around me, Mister, as I croon all the correct words, unlocking you, cradling that intimacy. I need to wrap mine around you, my lower lips constantly drooling in desire, so base, so carnal, so easy, addicted to you, Mister, I need to whisper into your soul how much I crave you, your essence, your lifeline, your seed, you. Wrap your cock in my tortured cunt, weeping for your gaze, a smattering of pheremones, the yeowling feline, cultivating an atmosphere of idiopathic "Dark Horse" of male oriented individual with control-ish possessive qualities in their prospective dynamics.
Pity upon this willing creation, a wanton cunt, deprived of affection, none of the kind with your unique brand of possessiveness. Mister so shrewd, calculating and cunning. The Logician, ever Arkitekt. Wrap me in your train, protect me under your wings. Be jealous of my heart, hypnotize my perspective, alter and design my reality. Take pride in your creation, Mister, see how much you make me smell so lascivious creepers come near.. perpetuating the constant design of abysmal pursuit.. testing my loyalty on a whim, already knowing how easy this catch was, so willing, so enthusiastic, so perfect. "This is what you were made for," you consistently utter and convey every time I exceed your underlying expectation of personal observances.
Were you surprised by pet's random fact and quips upon Mister's personage and habits? You, Mister, are exactly the one my heart, my soul, my spirit had yearned for. Healthy manipulative control, from as distanced as you wish. Flippantly noting various behaviors, tics, comment, perceived intentions, clarified or halfway clarified miscommunication, (should there be.) Share a little with me that which is close to your heart. My sole-core desire, perceived purpose, which Mister claims, repeatedly. Personal conflicts wrestling between the illegality of the traditional expectations should I project, yet I feel content, and hunger. I want to see how far I can play this game with you, Mister. Allowing myself to explore my slatternly primal being, the freedom of contraceptive, wings of which I can glide upon to traverse the social patterns created by whatever "cultural norms" we humans and animals are evolving into.
I need you in my cunt, my nectar flowing freely most near you, most by you, through you. Mister, I need your kisses, whisper into this flower, weeping for your affection, gaze upon this tragic display of complete concession to your ideals, ethics, and way of thought. Of course, Mister. I belong to you, I wish for nothing but to help bring any minor crumb of trivial inconsistencies, proving beneficial, amusingly enough, hahahahAHA!! This is exciting, Mister, I like this. Teach me more, use me, I joyously participate in your whims. Mold me, move me, sharpen, toughen, soften, code and manipulate this so perfect raw material the unknown God has gifted to you out in this -prospected- illusion. No matter... Such trivialities shouldn't bemuse any except the true mastermind, natural born intuition, proficient in manipulating his personal reality to project within the impact of his vicinity-- intimately, personally, locally, regionally, and globally, if not universally.
The equally respected enigma, as quickly learned. Fiercely independent, yet almost piteously helpless.
"This poor wretch has a curious whim about her, why shouldn't I take some time to indulge in something so perfectly willing, although completely unique amusement in her entirety."
Care to manipulate this visualization? Is there a particular truth you wish to weave into this being, this fundamental truth, centralized upon you, all the pleasure? Only pleasure, pour out all that raw energy and sexuality, touch, touch only for pleasure, only Mister's seed quietens the chaos within me. Please Mister, I need to make you feel the bliss that which is my toll of this perfect pure as equally intelligent, yet superiorly so, gift that leaks through your cock. An act of kindness, out of the goodness of your.. heart?.. You take pity on me, this wretched pet, so starved of any purposeful and meaningful interaction that grips her at her soul-core. Yet taking in the delicious pleasures of the perfect prey. The "once-in-a-lifetime" fabled urban legend. The perfect story, so organically pure, the tragedy that should intertwine between the story of the perfect mind and the most sincere being that wishes to exhibit her particular brand of affection, so wild and unbridled, self-damaging.
Your smell, your sounds, your groans and moans, how your perfect cock responds so perfectly in these hands which you've claimed in word, weirdly wiring themselves into my psyche. Your words don't follow me, floating by.. Your words are seeds planted into my crumbled foundation of id. Your consistency waters, and sprouts, intertwining yourself to my inside, beyond human cognitive comprehension. I need your care. I thank you kindly with a unique affection to exhibit gratitude for your mercy and time, and energy. Displayed as my personal and very naturally growing hybrid of being your source to pour into, and your source to rely upon.
Thank you.
Let me show you that gratitude. Let me sing praises to Mister as my lips shower your head with suckling kisses. How perfectly firm, throbbing, held at its peak performance, the epitome of masculinity, the Rod of Iron, haha, pillaging and raping, the typical Norse mythology stereotype, destroying those believing in the Christian God, Mister, I remember. The Lord, you rise, singing praises at your godly sexuality, haha, my mind wanders in these amusing fantasies and rabbit trails.
You quiet the chaos within me.
I need you.
Is it your intention to groom me as you being my God?
The fulcrum of my existence?
The standard to which I fail in all traditional aspects, but exceed expectation in performance and intentionality. Especially in worship and desire to please, Mister, I need to make you feel good, tell me I'm a good girl, generously pour out your seed into me. Let me destroy your future. Your lineage of spawns ends with me. Their new home will end with me, in one way or another. I need you, I need you in me.
Please drink of the juices that which flows freely for you, Mister, the fount of yearning, its warmth fueled by the embers of desire, the perpetual cumslut, mewling for some attention, give me some face time, pay attention to my kitty, gaze upon me, shower my kitty in kisses, touch me in all the right places, make me purr in delight or moan in pain. Let your tongue explore my inner most part, to taste of the fruits of your whim, amusement, and passion. Eyes, gazing upon me gently, understanding my predicament, how much I need to please you, to touch you, to worship constantly, at your feet, between your legs, in the presence of your perfection, tasked with the duty I was created for, your pleasure, to be the cask of which your seed is spilled, shamefully, pleasantly, otherwise upon your whim. Pet shouldn't daresay speculate Mister sprays into her because of pity.. maybe.. creating a space, allowing me to truly be the base primal being I am, the seductress, alluring all to the pretty smells, beguiling, enticing, entrapping, in turn creating a serial of parasitic chain of the intricacies of our thread-tread of life.
A designed trap.
I need you.
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