“The conventional means of ruling,” his answer slips into her fur and his sooty muzzle runs down the length of her thigh – although he can barely contain himself, there is nothing of the rash or uncalculated about him. When the gnarled roots of the trees – pulling impatiently towards the scarce slivers of light, wet and gleaming with black water – stand unmoving and watchful, there is no room for haste. The more time that will pass under their shadows, entwined on the forest floor, the better. Skywalker is no fledgling waif, the taste of blasphemy is something that often filigrees his lips. And accordingly, he is well versed enough to know that this is wine to be drunk slowly. “But not the prerequisite for dominance,” he continues gravely, as he snakes his long neck over her croup (as delicious as a rolling, tussocked hill in alpine spring) and leaves his chin to rest atop her elegantly swaying back, “that is what you want, no? Dominance?”

Everything stops, no dapple of light, no rustle of leaf. The world slows and the sylvan shadows of their home fall asunder, melting into grayscale and ineffable memory. “Let me show you the meaning of dominance.”

Everything stops.













His black skin seems to melt into hers; shadowy and all encompassing like a dusk slowly coming to substance. He moves with a strange gentleness coiled in his long, hard muscles – Skywalker is slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of her, stretching her thin between the prongs of his ruthless desires. A slow tide of blackness rolls over her, the black strands of his mane running in rivulets down into the curves and cusps of vermillion and gold. The stallion has made himself into a plume of murmurs and long caresses, lingering breaths entwined with the steady beating of his heart. And he wraps himself around her in a quaint embrace that reflects a myriad of things: a pendulum swinging from modest affection to pulse and veins to the intense heat that flairs in his black body, driving him steadily towards a daunting precipice’s edge. There, where the strange gentleness rolls into the dooryard and fades into the grave shadows of pleasure-induced violence. By and by his movements grow bolder and more greedy – where he began with whispering lip and soft breath his chivalry has been replaced with selfish longing and hungry teeth. Pleasure waning into possessiveness. In every other aspect of life and how it has so drastically changed, Eris may own him, but here amongst the dark flowers tied together in a bouquet of sin and lust, Skywalker owns her. Shadow will always engulf light. No matter how bright, no matter how golden.

His heart is beating in tandem with hers; his breath quickens and spills down the arch of her neck, longing to mingle with her – hopefully – pleased exhalations. Still, the marsh is unmoving, as if it has turned itself away from their carnal endeavors, as if the path they have embarked upon is forbidden, as if the world itself shivers at the prospect of their deranged future. It does not matter; all that exists is they. There is a single thing that fills his head as he moves against her without pause – Eris: how she feels, how she tastes, how she gives herself to him. Zealously he awaits her shivers, listens for the sounds of contentment – hushed little secrets, sweet and rousing – so that he can give himself unto her, repeat whatever thrill he might invoke, linger and tease to finally intensify and galvanize, throwing volleys of pleasure and deep sighs into the air. How kind of him, albeit slung furiously into the cage of his own avarice, to remember her, the empress that he now belongs to. And gladly so, if this is what is expected of him.

Time passes, so much so that the few morsels of light that dapple the earth are wrung away by the coming of night. Skywalker does not want the separation to happen, but knows that it must – no matter how much time he could waste on intimacy and white-hot desire, he cannot spend forever fondling her skin, mixing his black with her red. So, he pulls away from her, his shoulders shadowed by sweat, his chest heaving. “There,” he exhales as he slips up to her shoulder, his neck outreached and his muzzle absentmindedly grazing against her cheek, “you have my loyalty, do with it as you please,” he concludes. Again he is cloaked in austerity and reticence, again his face is hard and his eyes flinty. Here, empress: you have your general.

“Yours.”

Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

S K Y W A L K E R ; the manwhore