Dominatrix
She slides the stocking past her toes, slim ankles, bruised and scraped cyclists calves;
fell off the edge, not so graceful landing and not a tear, a wreck she hides
with soft steel. Up over muscled thighs empowered deliciously for dancing in her
kitchen to unconscientious corporate pop, and surrounding her ass and worshipped femininity deflowered...and yet always waiting to bloom.
Over the stocking is the hide of a grand and gentle beast. Black and buffed to gleam like a sharp knife flicking at the throat of savage desire. Let not the intimate nature of the package belie the strength. Supple and tough. An extra layer of protection around that which is hers to give but for none to take without an invitation. Twisting around and around the chain until the the pieces meet...
