Warning: sexual content
Her fingers are wound tightly around the nape of your neck, a firm, unforgiving hold, and her mouth is against your jaw, warmth, until the bite of teeth pierces your skin and you hiss at the sensation. You like it, and you don't stop to think about what it says about you, the pleasure that comes with the bite or the subsequent sting as her cane makes contact with your skin. She tells you to show her, and there is nothing gentle about the way you grasp her jaw, forcing her head towards you so you can crush your mouth against hers, a rough sort of demand in the kiss. Your touch will leave bruises, you know, as will hers, but that's what you want, and you know that's what she wants too. Her body is so warm against yours, and you only want her more when she fights your grip, the power struggle to take control of the kiss a heady, intoxicating thing.
Then the cane falls again, sharp and merciless against bare skin, but you want more, and you shove her back, using your body to make her move, and you lose track of how many times the cane comes in contact with bare skin, both yours and hers, as raw, painful want takes over. You've never wanted anyone like you want her, and you can't get enough, too far gone to be gentle, even if you wanted to. But the roughness feels right somehow, and marking each other makes you hers and her yours in a way you can't explain. You could think about it, but then her hand slides beneath your boxers and she's gripping you, firm and sure, and you're moaning her name, and she's begging, pleading, and the memory fades just as your fingers move to reciprocate her touch.