A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

Doing Laundry | August 23, 2009

I was doing laundry.

I can be somewhat of a slob sometimes. I tend to end up throwing my clothes aside quite often, and letting them pile up until I have no fresh, clean or whatever I would deem wearable clothes in my wardrobe to wear.

I found one of my tops was torn.   A red one.

It always looks great on me.  Usually an eye popper, show stopper.

But now I find it’s torn. Well shredded would be more accurate.  Not just torn. Two whole sides of it, it looks like claw marks, have torn it from back to just around the front. It’s utterly ruined.  It’s not even a top you could pass off as having deliberately meant to be like that.  Like a deliberate look of fashion.

Fucking werewolf foreplay.

Doesn’t always have to be rough or rash, but more and more tends to be with me and Conall.

Granted, I like winding him up, pushing him to hold out till he can’t and then that’s when the fun starts.  Right before the fur fly’s. Everything he’s feeling just rushes out of him desperately as he tries to consume me in his passion.

It’s like a form of devotion.

Being swept up in his sexual desire for me.

It works, how can I not get swept up in his heat? When his body feels like it’s on fire and his eyes tell me he’s drowning in built up desire.  Just by looking at me.

The world drops away and I feel like falling to my knees and clinging to his body. Our breathing syncs and we’re gone. There isn’t anything else but us. That’s when we tend to forget that one off designer tops are hard to come by. Clothing gets torn, forgotten in a momentary bliss of blinded emotion.

It’s all body memory when we reach that place.  Common sense and inhibitors go out the window. Werewolves, even locked up inside us, take over the carnal side of control. Fully. They want us to be together, maximum consumption anyway, anyhow.

You could call it a loss of control.

I prefer to call it surrender.

Times like this I feel like he says so much to me without saying a word. The sounds of his breathing, his moans, groans and little sighs of air. They make me aware of his sensuality, as much as where his lips are on me. Or how his hands grip me, where his teeth nip at me.

I liked that top. Really liked it.

Conall liked it too.  That’s why it got shredded. He’d been eyeing me all the time in that red top.  As if distracted by it’s coloring on me. Hard to not notice and look at.

That top was a favorite of mine.

But then so is Conall and carnal pleasure.

Happy thoughts as my heartbeat picks up.

I think that’s the only time I’ve ever enjoyed doing laundry. Hmmm.

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