F A N F I C T I O N > M I S C . F A N D O M S
Violent Pornography by Amberina
There is clothing -- designer, beautiful clothing -- balled on the floor. Uncomfortable heels and decidedly more comfortable loafers lay side-by-side. They're neatly arranged as if to give some semblance of order to the chaos. There are chairs overturned and bits of broken glass and champagne sparkling on the carpet.
There is a gun tangled in the sheets and another in a milky-white hand. The hand is attached to an arm that is raked with scratches from expensively manicured nails. There is blood on the chest that is connected to the arm and above that, there is a smirk that belongs to a man that can't get enough.
There is a woman underneath him, naked and writhing. She arches her back and she frantically pulls at a cock that had been buried inside of her only minutes before. She isn't careful to guard his member from her nails as she chants a mantra containing words better left undocumented. Her nipples are hard and her pussy is wet as the gun (held by the hand that's connected to the arm that is bleeding for her) brushes against her inner thigh.
There is cold, cold metal against warm, warm skin. It dips into flesh warmer still, nudges against her clit and, finally, pushes inside her. There are moans tangled with expletives. The voice is disembodied, the gun thrusts of its own accord. Everything is detached, operating within its own sphere. The only thing that makes sense to either, in the moment or out of it, is pleasure and pain and what sort of power both engender.
Fuck, yes, can be heard, but neither could -- or would -- tell who said it.