Bessa

Truths

Eyes weep, lips tremble, legs shake, hands are bound.

Discarded hair piles at my feet like trash that I can't help but step on.

I don't think he believed me when I told him his life's in danger, he didn't even react to the threat I made.

The Savage grips the scissors tightly in his hand. A nick to my scalp has blood staining silk. I can't help but think this dress is from my grandmother's lineage that has been passed down from generation to generation. Not one stain, not one rip until now.

"It's your turn to cut my hair." His voice holds a delicate softness that contrasts with the ugliness of the sounds I've been making.

He steps on my hair getting closer to me. I burn the image into my mind.

His foot is on something that held my pride.

Now the strands are going to be swept away as rubbish.

He exhales while I hold my breath in, "you have to cut my hair now." He says the words again, is it because I never gave him any outward sign I heard him the first time?

Fingers untie my right hand, freeing my wrist from the binding of silver. The skin feels hot, raw - I want to rub it better but can't because the left still remains chained.

He takes my hand in his.

Skin against skin

Liquid fire scalds a path down the lenght of my spine to settle itself hotly in my depths. The warmth intensifying to the point I need to cross my legs because it feels uncomfortable.  A natural shudder shakes my inner thighs against one another creating a pressure that licks itself between the space of my legs, creating feelings that are alarming.

My body holds the rebellion my mind is trying to fight.

Anarchy.

I can feel the air current quake itself from his trembling body - so severe are his movements that I think he might shift from the cocoon of skin to the Wild within him.

Inhale, exhale.

The breath from our lungs is labored, there is no hiding the ragged sound.

Minutes pass by with us not able to move. We are fighting to control the natural Nature of the bond.

Looking down from those eyes, seeing how his foot is on my hair makes it easier for clarity to take over from the wants of a body.

A fight to pull my hand away is no use, he's much stronger in his grip than I can fight against.

Inked skin covers roads of vein and muscles that are shifting, flexing, engoring. The Savage puts the handle of the scissor's in my palm - a large hand wraps around mine bringing the blades to his head.

His mouth is slightly parted, dilating pupils conquering the green within the small space.

A deep bass rumble of his Nature rushes out from his chest. The vibration of noise is percussed outward rippling the material of silk against my skin.

When he focuses on my eyes, we hold our sight together. The scissors cut his first piece of hair off, "do you wish it was her doing this to you?" I say it before strands fall to the ground at our feet.

Silence.

His breath brushes against my exposed neck, to find it's way in the space where the fabric meets skin to slither itself against my chest. There is a pleasureable discomfort to invade my body from his closeness.