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Scent Marking.

P1060122

When she has finished with you, you are kneeling in the centre of the room. Back marked with her whip, cane and cat, meek and near broken.

Standing behind you, I run my hands over your head, down your neck, onto your shoulders and back, feeling the raised skin, the heat of the welts. Stroking you with the faintest of touches, my icy cold finger tips on your silken skin.

My hands pushing down onto your shoulders, my touch becoming deeper, smooth yet pushing into you, onto you. The heal of my hand into the back of your shoulder my fingers bent, my nails hold you at the front, firm. A massage like no other. The mix of dull ache and sharpness, chronic and acute. Bending my knees, your warmth against my shins, my knee caps pressed firmly either side of your spine, the toes of my shoes at your coccyx.

Putting a hand down under your chin, I lift your head, pulling your face up to meet my gaze, like a beautiful flower turning to the sun. Back bent, curved around my knees, your chest stretched open, your neck; compression at the back, expansion at the front you find it difficult to swallow. I look at your lovely face, your pouty mouth, I bend forward to kiss your lips upside down. Licking the inside of your open mouth, I taste you. You shake as the contorted body fatigues. I release you and you spring forward then upright. The relief is visible on your face and you pant.

Stepping round you, lifting my skirt, I tell you to straighten your legs to the front. Lowering myself on to your cock. My open blouse allows us to be chest to chest, my legs bent around your waist, the heels of my shoes catching the downy skin on your buttocks. Grabbing hold of your scorched back, clinging onto you for dear life, my nails clawing at you as I buck hard from the waist, pulling you into me, harder, I fuck you, I take you, you are mine.

After I am done, I stand and send you back to her, so that she can see what she inspired me to do, my nail marks over hers. Like scent marking, a shot across her bows? Maybe.

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About Prim Quim

I am an artist and therapist. I work within the themes of sexuality, repression, guilt, greed, contradiction, objectification, compulsion, itches that need to be scratched and bruises that need to be pressed. I am a consentual bruise presser, a boundary straddler and limit pusher. I interview people and witness their lives, I write about what I see, how I feel and all the beautiful fragments that make up my reality. I am the sum of all my parts - some bits move and other parts are static, some bits need oiling and other bits just run and run. I am both subject and object to myself. I am slave to my Art and so are the others who come into my sphere. I objectify and use, interrogate and examine - I need their reality and reasoning to lay alongside my own to compare, contrast, season and gorge upon. Exponent of automatic writing, compulsive self realisation and daring myself to go further.

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