Qin | Part 7
"I have something important to tell you. Come with me." He cajoled her into an empty space on the roof of the institute building.
He had to punish her.
He ambushed her from behind, so rudely that he almost toppled her over. He pressed his loin against her hip, locking her throat with his right elbow, wringing every last piece of lies out of her.
She was hurt. Her throat pushed out bouts of dry coughs. Perhaps unconsciously, he wanted her to feel what she made him feel.
She battered the elbow with her palms: "You are choking me! If you were someone special, I could've sensed it. You bad, twisted, perverted, revolting molester."
Now, a typical jab at his impotent masculinity provoked him to inflict more pain, more humiliation, more punishment upon this lecherous lass:
"Now it's my turn to leave a mark."
He dragged her towards a chair and chucked her into it. He shackled her wrists with his furious hand. He rolled up the hem of the top she wore, shoved up her helpless lace cups , eyed up her peachy breasts, swelled, plump, adorably displaying plum-colored blood vessels. He gobbled up her bunny-like bosoms, sank his teeth into her titillated, moist nipples and sucked forth her lying, shrieking soul out of her. Full of enthralling blushes were her cheeks. Full of glimmering shyness were her eyes. Carpe diem! Pluck the flower, you impotent loser! He closed his eyes to take perverse pleasure in his disgraceful ecstasy.
She didn't struggle. Deep down, she probably grew nonchalant towards this lubricious wretch she despised.
He obviously hadn't satisfied his compulsion yet. His lips and tongue then poured a torrent of kisses, dribbling a wet trail all along from her cribs, tummy, navel down to her forbidden delta.
Now she struggled. Perhaps she'd been so convinced that her promised land was too good to be ravished by someone unworthy like him.
He deflected the kitten's scratching paws, splayed her lustful legs, pecked her immaculate thighs, unbuttoned her shorts, ripped open the zip, yanked down her pants checkered with orange and pink.
Moistened labia clamped together. They were so frightened that they felt reluctant to present her clitoris, a sugar bomb detonating and prismatic rhapsodies flooding in. Her pubic hair, sparse and soft, didn't manifest her raging desire. He took ineffable pleasure in breathing in wafts of the aroma emanating from a young girl's flamboyant vigor. Her vulva was humming her unique mellifluous melody plucking the string of his innermost chord. Her perineum, a skillful finger massage on it would seduce her vagina to bring a cornucopia of nectar that he should have quaffed but in the end never, ever sipped at.
A promised virgin land of eternal bliss. At that moment, the entire Milky Way of constellations were twinkling in his brain; a panorama of madness and conquest was unfolding right in front his eyes; Dvorak's Symphony No.9, "From the New Land", was thundering at his ears; hundreds of stallions were galloping and thousands of bulls were stampeding across his mind:
Lo and behold! Here lies in front of me an infinitely convoluted instrument: a biological miracle that endured through millions of years by eliminating all the alternatives to hold sway over the evolutionary path of an entire race; a blood-bespattered hotbed in which warmongering sperms from throat-cutters fight for a chance to leave thin trails of rampant rapists' genetic makeups; a deadly organ by virtue of which the apex female predators masqueraded as meek preys to hunt male creatures down and use them up; a tricky gadget that a femme fatale can employ to conceal her duplicity and absorb masculinity to empower her manipulative predilection; a thorny bush of all vicious words that a female cover-up artist can utilize to literally destroy a man's self-respect and pretend victims so as to commit a series of more despicable crimes; a holy chalice for which even the most sensible, rational, puritanical men will be reduced to laughable clowns of the same old man-and-woman in-and-out sport.
That night, he received her text message:
"Don't do this to me. 'Open' as I may be, I am conservative."
"Conservative". Huh. Definitely you are conservative, when scull-fucked, gang-banged by all of your crooked fuckers.
He lashed out in his reply:
"We'll do it sooner or later. Right now, I wish I could peel you like a wet grape. Mutilate you into pieces. Take possession of every inch of you. Devour up every last chop of your flesh. Suck up every last drop of your blood. And stuff what's left of you into a jar brimmed with Formalin, so that you'll never change. You are mine."
He was just too heady to see beneath the surface:
He was hers, not the other way around.