Turning Heads I have a habit of tilting your head to one side when I tell you what I’m goi

Turning Heads I have a habit of tilting your head to one side when I tell you what I’m going to do to you. It’s a way of forcing supplication even before it’s given, twisting your will to mine, even before I’ve thrust you into the fire and started to melt. You’re still cold, barely warmed up, and I’m bending you this way and that like you’re putty.  It’s bound to cause some resistance, and some resistance is what I want. I want there to be fire in your eyes because otherwise there’s nothing to melt, nothing to break down and repurpose. I want some fight, a little edge, perhaps a bite or two, before I’m truly willing to turn you into the simpering, mewling beauty that I’ve got in mind for you to be. It starts with that, though, a slight turning of the head. Fingers in your hair, a hand on your cheek, perhaps. My lips against the lobe, just positions to send little chills down your spine as my words tickle their way into your mind. Everything is considered, little girl, and that’s why you feel so wonderfully overwhelmed when I turn it on like that. Because you’re feeling the inexorable pull of will, the thought that I’ve got a plan and I’m executing it with great aplomb. It doesn’t matter whether I do or not, whether I’m improvising this, winging it as the moment comes to me; the point is you feel under thumb. It’s why I start with a turn of the head, and why it ends with you sore and full, satisfied on the floor at my feet, one hand flopping against the hair on my leg while this silly fuck-stupid smile tumbles over your lips like a drunk. And it’s why I’ll smile at you then like I’m smiling at you now, because either way, I know what’s going to happen. I’m going to have you. -- source link

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