Who’s Your Papi?

rolledtrousers:

It was never about the single grip for him. Everything needed to be countered and weighed, two points to fix it in place, a firm hold that offered no space for movement, no room to manoeuvre. He grabbed her neck and he grabbed her head, and she grabbed his hands, because where else could she hold? Where else would make sense?

She did what she did because he was who he was. He was the man who gripped twice, and she was the girl who was doubly held. There was something in that, a glimmer of a thought that made her look at him in a different light, although the hue was unclear. Perhaps it meant he cared twice as much, or that he was doubly controlling. 

His thumb digging into the underside of her jaw. Fingertips pressing against her skull from behind, where her spine met her head. Finding her weak spots and pushing, so that she wanted to squirm, wanted to scream, wanted to fuck. Hands on his wrists turned into hands on his shoulders, and she tried to sink into him, lips against lips, but he was having none of it. His arms remained strong, stiff columns that she couldn’t budge. It made her feel helpless.

And when she felt helpless she started to get wet. It was a forceful surrender, each finger like the barrel of a gun, forcing her to her knees and into his capture. Even her mouth was not her own, with that thumb dictating when and where she could open it. Her voice taken away from her, locked behind the bars of her teeth. She moaned, and he stared down at her unapologetically. 

Two hands, two points. He’d hold her between them later, one hand on each hip, both pushing inwards. He’d have a hand on her chest and another on her back, keeping her suspended between the ceiling and the bed, aided levitation. One hand against her cunt and the other against her rear. Two points. Never alone.

(Source: soulsearchparty, via stubbornlittleone)