It feels strangely sacrilegious to take such silken flesh beneath the coarse callouses of my hands. The delicate curve fitting almost perfectly into my hand as the first tentative pressure brings a final lingering gasp. A light grasp that nevertheless represents a complete blockage to the vainly fluttering lungs. The panicked heart beats futilely against my ever closing grip, pounding just beneath the velveteen skin as my fingers deepen their desecration. And yet at this moment of seeming savagery I find myself at my most tender.
I find myself engrossed with her below me. I see every twitch, spasm, blink. Watching for the slightest hint of danger, more like an attentive watch dog then the fierce predator my grin emulates. Her life rests literally in my hand, which like never before feels like a crude instrument even if wielded with consummate skill. My heart hammers with hers even as I loosen my grip. Allowing her to fill her lungs as I fill her. I tighten my grip. On her, on the simple animal lust that rages against my control. And it is that control that makes this grip so exciting to us both despite the dangers.
That I can control the desire to break this fragile, precious thing below me. That she knows I will only hold her so tight no matter how much she begs for more or wishes the dark reminders to last longer. That I care more for her than my pleasure, or hers. That every sip of air is not the last no matter how much it seems that way. A shared illusion turning every breath into a gift.
So much all wrapped in a single act.
