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Kafka is beautiful like this, sitting on his cock like it’s her throne. Blade would reach out and touch her, if he deserved to. His wrists, bound above his head with threads of lightning, tremble in their restraints when she leans in and her breath ghosts over the shell of his ear.
Listen, Bladie.
He listens. The golden tendrils of mara clawing at his insides recede in obedience to the sound of her voice, the feeling of her warm and wet around him. He bucks up, helpless and desperate, and she clenches around him, pressing a hand to the center of his chest to keep him down.
It’s a symbiotic relationship. He lets her use him at her mercy. She does this out of mercy, in the first place. He knows he’s beyond salvation, but if it ever were to be bestowed upon him, this would be the closest he’s ever come.