( perfect little victories: he does know what he's doing, a man on a mission, parisa's toes curling against the straps of her expensive shoes while he kisses her, fingertips dipping under the hem of his shirt to stroke the taunt bit of muscled belly skin just above his waist. she swallows up a moan forming there in the back of her throat, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing it, because she has her little finger dug into the broken, rotting part of his overripe tomato brain and understands him between one hungry stroke of his tongue and the next. he is driven by the chase of praise, but uninspired by the reality of it — there's mold in his psyche where self-preservation should be, eating away at the part of his brain that's supposed to enjoy the success of a job well done.
parisa almost laughs at how off the mark his cousin was. almost.
instead, she has a frown marring her mouth when the kiss breaks, her pitying look back in place — a bleeding expression that mocks the boy who actually believed himself capable of pleasing her, that says is that really it? with a tut of her tongue. one hand lifts, cups his handsome cheek affectionately. ) It's not your fault. Some people are born completely worthless.
( the fact of the matter is, parisa is only so convincing in her brutality because she honestly believes it. you can't live life as the most beautiful woman in the world, reading everyone's thoughts that they broadcast into you, without coming out jaded on the opposite end of puberty. she's in her thirties now and has yet to feel impressed with what humanity has to offer — life is one constant string of disappointments, as long as you have brittle, useless hope to lose. ironically, that bloody, broken, hangnail of a thing carmy has in his brain is the exact thing that gives him some value in parisa's eyes, and yet, value is the one thing she can't offer him. the ouroboros of self-flagellation. )
Don't you want to apologize to me? For wasting my time, and my air. ( cruelty is a little addicting, she finds. she's been mean before, but not like this — poison comes easy to her, because it lives inside her, too, a snake with venom glands and fangs to pierce. the hand at his waist pops open the button of his jeans, palm sliding under his boxers to cup his cock, to feel it squirm and flinch and leak. she squeezes, meanly. ) For being a bad kisser with a small dick. Apologize.
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parisa almost laughs at how off the mark his cousin was. almost.
instead, she has a frown marring her mouth when the kiss breaks, her pitying look back in place — a bleeding expression that mocks the boy who actually believed himself capable of pleasing her, that says is that really it? with a tut of her tongue. one hand lifts, cups his handsome cheek affectionately. ) It's not your fault. Some people are born completely worthless.
( the fact of the matter is, parisa is only so convincing in her brutality because she honestly believes it. you can't live life as the most beautiful woman in the world, reading everyone's thoughts that they broadcast into you, without coming out jaded on the opposite end of puberty. she's in her thirties now and has yet to feel impressed with what humanity has to offer — life is one constant string of disappointments, as long as you have brittle, useless hope to lose. ironically, that bloody, broken, hangnail of a thing carmy has in his brain is the exact thing that gives him some value in parisa's eyes, and yet, value is the one thing she can't offer him. the ouroboros of self-flagellation. )
Don't you want to apologize to me? For wasting my time, and my air. ( cruelty is a little addicting, she finds. she's been mean before, but not like this — poison comes easy to her, because it lives inside her, too, a snake with venom glands and fangs to pierce. the hand at his waist pops open the button of his jeans, palm sliding under his boxers to cup his cock, to feel it squirm and flinch and leak. she squeezes, meanly. ) For being a bad kisser with a small dick. Apologize.