governingmouse

[governingmouse]

Five Times Fucked

HOW DO YOU WANT ME? HOW DO YOU WANT ME? 

No longer accepting!

i. In her palace of justiceveiled in perfect darkness save for the sweeping floodlights projecting frombeyond the courtyard, your cheek nudges the wall, close enough to the windowoverlooking the concrete underground.

Denied a kiss, you want morefrom this. Pushed against the cool and clammy brick, her breath graces theshell of your ear. Swiftly, she tugs down the zipper to your skirt, allowingher palm to rove across the heat of your cunt. Her fingers fill and stretchyou; you love the burn, even relish it. You fuck quickly, vigorously, as ifit’s never enough.

Hips meet hips. Hers coveryour narrow ones. Her trousers burn your skin, eliciting bittersweet friction. You love the fullness of her body pressing against you, thewarmth radiating from her body despite her icy persona. She falls onto you likea shadow. Your eyes drift down to her hand, her wrist, the fingers of a cellistor a killer; you’re never sure which. You shatter into a billion pieces, a pretty teapot come undone.

After you cum, you lick herfingers clean and thank her for it.

ii. The desk is your maritalbed. Here, you sacrifice all inhibitions, but the scratches etched along thecurve of your back always remember. Maybe this makes you weak, even malleable. However,the way she fucks you so good leaves you breathless every time.

Scrutinized, held underglass, she observes your frantic movements as she touches you with machine-likeprecision. Briefly, her thumb roves along the underside or your jaw, forcingyou to maintain eye contact. Your breasts and your ass bounce from the velocityof her thrusts, as if she’s made to claim you.

“Well, aren’t you theGovernor’s little whore?”

You loathe her patronizingtone. Truth be told, her demeanor goads you. Gets you inexplicably wet.

iii. This time, you assertyourself. In the boiler room, you take control of your pleasure. The handcuffsgive you back your power. Still, she occupies the uncomfortable chair as averitable throne. She’s surprised by your assertiveness, but revels in the switch.A lascivious purr ensues.

You taunt her with yourimage, your legs spread, and your fingers delving past the mess of curlstowards your soaked center. You fuck yourself for her though you hold off fromfinishing. Tonight, you want to see her unravel, just as she’s taken you apartand dressed you in her image.

“I’m going to fuck you,” youannounce, exhilarated and unabashed. It’s a privilege to admit that she allowsyou to service her.

For her, you bring yourselfto your knees. My, oh my, you’re eager for a sacred taste. You worship herthighs, the altar of her sex. Greedily, you steal a glimpse, your mouth uponher cunt, your tongue lavishing her swollen, throbbing clit with your undividedattention. 

Joan is a habit you can’tafford to quit.

iv. Under the night’s veil, youappear at her cell. Coyly, with the boldness of a naughty schoolgirl, you creepinto her cage, her eminent domain. You seek to relieve yourself of thatbuilding, mounting tension.

Rising from the ashes. avengeful shade is cast. Such a firm, tyrannical grasp could destroy you. Youbruise easily; she grips your thighs, your bum, smacks your ass just the wayyou like. Reverent fingertips trail across the expanse of your birdcage ribs. With her hand around yourthroat, you pledge your allegiance to a burning, war-torn flag. One of thesedays, she’s going to kill you.

Straddling her lap atop thisuncomfortable cot, the violence and tenacity of her thrusts leave you soaked. Youride her fingers until you’re seeing stars. Her fingers are coated in you andwith a spasm, you clench around her. You cum in the palm of her hand, stillirrevocably hers.

Despite sporting the crowns,she still owns you. You feel poisoned though you keep coming back for more. Youcannot pin all the blame on her even if you want to – need to. God, youwant to.

Although you’ve hardened,you still have your heart. Cheeks burning cherry red, you leave behind yourdignity.

v. Tested and bested, shewon’t lay this to rest. Fever dream or reality, you can’t quite make up yourmind. Here in your home, Joan has a way of haunting you. Stirringin your bed, your breath catches – hitches – as if the mere act is comparableto strangulation.

Maybe this is theannihilation she promises. Being hanged, tried, and buried alive has changedher. She settles on top of you. You experience the full weight of her presence.Your leg hooks around her waist, desperate to feel her inside you. Your handscaress her back before you seize her from behind. The tenderness could be aruse and you hate the way you’re cast full of doubt. These little touches,these definitive strokes are never enough.

Sweating and shivering, yourthighs quiver as you ride out your high. You hear her thunderous heartbeat andthere’s no denying that she relishes the way you fall apart, but youacknowledge the history between you both. In the predicament of Faustus andMephistopheles, you miss the old days, the glory days, the days neither of youcan go back to.

She has dismantled you, tornyou asunder, until you were forced to put together the pieces of yourself.

Although she doesn’t killyou, you feel your breath leave you and it’s no different from the soul leavingthe body. Not every detail is necessary, but you covet it all in yourmemory. You hold her in a warped rendition of Pietas until she pulls away,until you’re alone again, and the weight drags you down.

How many times has she cometo you in your nightmares and foolish longings? 

Maybe she was never here tobegin with, you rationalize, studying the tangled mess of sheets and the dentin the mattress beside your splayed body. 

Your dreams always end inthis way: alone.

[governingmouse]

The first and most important person you must believe in is yourself.

Toni Sorenson

(via

mostimportantproject

)

[governingmouse]

"You're glowing," A simple remark made in a less than simple time; Joan cannot help but to point it out.

Unabashed, Vera has cast off the shackles of doubt and insecurity. In this moment she feels most herself. No more pretend-boyfriends and cruel men occupy her bed. At tranquility with herself, Rita’s influence has been kicked to the curb. On her newly anointed pedestal, Vera Bennett has never felt so bold. She’s grown tired of cowering in corners, of dividing herself into something – someone – digestible.

Downright luminous, her smiles come at no cost, donated at good will. Pretending her heart hasn’t been torn in two, Vera feigns delight and merriment. She deserves to be happy, not miserable. At last, she recognizes her worth. Let spite carry her aloft.

Does this metamorphosis unnerve Ferguson? If so, grand.

“I’ve you to thank for that,” Vera titters on, freeing her mess of hair from former authoritarian confines.

She wonders if Joan likes what she sees. Her chest stirs, but she dares not continue the instigation.

Perhaps it’s Vera’s attempt to get a rise out of the Governor in the break room. Seated at an uncomfortable plastic chair, her polished heels click together. Her shift is ending, that’s her sad, little reprieve. Conducting a new ceremony, embarking on a ritual entirely her own, she plucks the bobby pins from her braided hair. Her hair flows wild and free as the golden glow washes over her. Devoid of the prison mandated bun, it all falls free in loose, flowing waves, beckoning a faint trace of rosemary.

You made me. She doesn’t pose the challenge. Not yet.

In due time, she’ll turn against the one who made her, trained her, molded her into the Governor’s image.

[governingmouse]

I thought I was cool about Ferguson being alive after all (I haven’t watched Wentworth in FOREVER) but I wasn’t and here we are… I still love her a lot.

I’ve updated my commission prices!

My Print shop

Social Media

[governingmouse]

we’re in love during the war. does it make each moment more precious, or does it make each moment more difficult?

the war will turn us to monsters (i no longer recognize you) [j.m] (via nefrertiti)

[governingmouse]

❛ our backs tell stories no books have have the spine to carry. ❜

Milk & Honey: i want what i want - in the heart of these unspoken moments

No longer accepting.

Forced to take time off, rid of her sense of purpose, Vera seems incapable of learning the implications of proper rest. In the shower, she claws off dead skin. Scrapes and scrapes until she’s as pink as a newborn baby. She cannot scrub enough. Fine, hairline scratches adorn her skin. Her fingers trace those ragged welts. Let them hurt, she decides. Somehow, she convinces herself that she deserves it. In the aftermath, she envelopes herself in a warm, soft, grey towel. The sweet angel of mercy never felt so far away.

Cast as another forgotten martyr despite catching Conway in her futile attempt at a prison break, the back of her hand swipes along the underside of her red, raw nose. Ruin is a song to be sung, even wailed. How weak and powerless she feels. She swallows her fears and anxieties, still wracked by disappointment worming its way into her head. How many times does she give up the best parts of herself?

From the pressure, her spine curves while her shoulders sag. A horrible tenseness embeds itself deep within her muscles, her back aching. It’s the pain often accompanying the stress of working a double. The twinge in her wrist, freshly wrapped, only makes matters worst.

During after hours, Joan visits her, just as she did when Mum was at her most terrible, most tyrannical. Reassured in the moment, Vera neglects their positions - their precarious predicament. Yet, as if in disbelief and weary resignation, Vera shakes her head. She no longer reeks of vinegar, but feels soiled by marginal failure, small and insignificant in her empty home. It’s impossible to sortout the complexities in a single night.

Torn between wanting to be alone and yearning for the company, this is the feeling of never being enough. Vera steps aside and lets her in. She always lets Joan inside.

Orders are easy to follow, obey, adhere to. Quick to throw away the old parts of herself, Vera quits her sniveling at last. She’ll learn from this. She’ll grow. She swears upon it with a rattling fist banging against her chest.

Yes, Vera gives away the last parts of herself. Thrown away the old mouse alongside Mum’s belongings. Life continues its cycle, history a shadow’s constant threat. It’s a journey to heal, to learn from old behavior.

Joan pours her a glass of Pinot that’s a glistening ruby shade.

A guiding, messianic palm settles on the curve of her neck. Beneath that steady hand, Joan feels the fragile knob of bone. She forces Vera to look at her. Experiences the rivulets of water trickle down Vera’s dewy skin. Drowning in an over-sized navy house robe - ratty, old thing, clearly cherished, but Joan makes note to replace it.

And Vera drinks in the attention. Dies a little. Leans into the killing blow.

That glimmer of pain Joan finds more riveting than a Botticelli piece. She wets her lips, savoring that glimpse of weakness.

“It’s just pain,” Vera dismisses the years of abuse, the era of neglect, with a deep gulp of wine and a flippant toss of her hand. It stirs a fire from within, but Joan Ferguson has always been responsible for kindling that fatal spark. “My story isn’t that interesting.”

For years (to endure all her tears and fears), Vera has learned to swallow her pain. A strained, wavering smile sits in perfect place. Caught in implicit duality, she wants a better life, a better story, for herself. Although hesitant, Vera searches Joan’s face for some sort of sign, some expression to set her on the right path. 

[governingmouse]

Just a mouse. 🐭

[governingmouse]

‘ One cannot deny the animal within. ‘ 😈

[governingmouse]

[governingmouse]

Fleetwood Mac  -  Go Your Own Way  (Rumours 1977)

[governingmouse]

Send ‘Five Times Fucked” for a drabble about 5 times our muses fucked (not made love...fucked)

[governingmouse]

That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.

Elizabeth Wurtzel (via quotemadness)

[governingmouse]

The best predators always learned how to masquerade as things that wouldn’t seem threatening. That was how they got close enough to strike.

Into the Drowning Deep, Mira Grant (via valenshawke)

[governingmouse]

[governingmouse]

Typewriter Series #2186 by Tyler Knott Gregson

[governingmouse]

I’ve exhausted my cruelty. I’ve arrived at myself again.

— Jenny George, from “Reprieve,” The Dream of Reason

[governingmouse]

Me: dont fuckin boss me around!!!!!

Someone I Find Attractive: *tells me what to do in a semi-stern voice*

Me: