In this entry: intense sex, followed by carving runes with the hat-pin.
We fucked hard, Adonis and I. While I was on top, riding him, he was most certainly in charge. He twisted my breasts cruelly, knowing how it would make me gasp, and ordered me to lift and re-impale myself on his cock. I did so with delight.
I was slick and intensely wet after my time spent watching Aphrodite ride him as I rode him now, and from the time I then spent bringing her to orgasm with my tongue. But as if I could forget it, Adonis talking of it as he pinched and pulled my nipples was an electric reminder.
Obedient to his wishes, I came only when he ordered me to, lifting myself and gushing to fill his belly button, to trickle down his cock and over his balls. There were towels laid thick beneath us, and I came hard, not having to worry for the sheets.
I came again, and again, whenever he growled, “Now come for me, slut.” Came until there was no more liquid in me, and then again, convulsing and shuddering and crying out, teeth resting on his shoulder, always coming for him when he ordered it.
We fucked until we both were spent, and rested, curled upon each other and drenched towels.
We cleaned off, a little, wrapped ourselves in gowns (mine was on loan from Aphrodite, a short turquoise satin wrap-around with flowers embroidered on the back, that reminded me of a pale-yellow dragon-embroidered wrap I once owned), and broke for lunch. The three of us sat in the lounge, eating and drinking and enjoying each others’ company.
But all the while, there was the awareness of the runes.
We had discussed them for nearly a month, Adonis and I. Talked of the possibilities, hunted on the internet, drawn different versions. Our previous date, the mood had been different, and so they had been left for this time, and the waiting and talking merely served to make my desire (and fear) stronger.
Towels cleared off and placed in the laundry, I lay flat on the bed on my back. Adonis paced, wolf-like, around the bed and watched as I made myself comfortable, my head on a pillow so I could watch the proceedings (watching as he carves my skin, marking me with his words).
He began on my right breast. Taking the amber-coloured felt-tip, he drew the runes across the top while I held my breast up to keep the shape it would need. Done, he backed off and checked it, while I looked from above. The final rune looked off-kilter, so he rubbed it off with his spittle and drew it again.
Finally, satisfied, he carved.
It was a short job, stopping soon after starting, and I gasped with disappointment when he put the pin down. But it was a fine, deep marking, with the scores deep enough to draw blood. Wiping my breast with a disinfected towelette, welts rose with tiny drops flowering in his wake.
He ignored it and went to work on my other breast.
Another set of runes, the same number as on the right. The scoring was not so deep, this time, and he went back and re-marked some that were too light for his taste. The welts rose slower, and did not blossom as they did on the right. But the right was blossoming enough for both.
Finally, he moved to my torso, to the spot beneath my breasts. This was the largest, and longest, word. He drew each letter on with care, the runes themselves higher and wider than the others, making the most of the space. At one point, dissatisfied, he erased the last half and re-worked them, keeping to the lines he’d mentally marked on me.
I was floating in a delicious haze of pain when he started, and he carved slow and deep, dragging the hat-pin across my flesh. After each rune he paused to watch the impact, and I gaze heavy-lidded at him as he pressed his nails into my skin. Five runes, fine runes, runes on fire as he pressed through the layers of flesh and drew my blood. Marked me as his. Owned. Loved. Taken.
Done, after an eternity of subspace and yet far, far too soon for either of our liking, he stalked around the room again, admiring his handiwork. As I admired and adored him.
Over a month now, and the runes have all faded. The large one was the longest to go, and was still visible over four weeks later. Only now, after they can no longer be seen at all, do I feel able to write about them. Wanting to remember them, the sensitivity of brushing my fingers over them, the pleasure of hot water in the shower making them sting, the frisson of pleasure as my clothes pressed against them. And the love of Adonis pressing his lips to them, before snarling and biting and showing his love in a different way.