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Feral 

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Feral with Mohawk
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Feral with Mohawk

Feral

Some things aren't meant to be tamed. This woman, I think, must be one of those things. Her edges are sharp as razors and her smile glints viciously in the waning light of the bar. When she stands up, I can see the muscles of her arms, her thighs, her calves.

The dress is short and tight, like a second skin. Her movements remind me of a predator. Each step gets her a little bit closer to her prey.

My stomach lurches when I realize that she's looking at me. I can't decide if this is a good thing or not. I don't have a chance to think on it - she's standing in front of me, a savage glint in her eyes.

One finely trimmed nail strokes down my cheek, along my jaw, under my skin. It makes my skin crawl with a dreadful mix of unease and anticipation. I grin at the woman but know that it comes off less sure than I would like.

"You interested in taking a little walk?" There's a strange lilt to her words. Her tongue runs over her bottom lip, as if to accentuate her meaning. "Because I could use...a hand...with some things 'round the back.

It probably isn't my best idea, but I nod and stand and follow her out of the bar. She sways her hips when she walks, luring me deeper, deeper, deeper into her trap. We've barely gone to the corner when the woman pounces, spinning around and pressing me against the wall.

Bricks dig into my back and lips press against my throat, hard enough to bruise.
This woman is wild. Unbroken. Feral.

We are a mess of nails and teeth, of grabbing hands and searching mouths. Her dress hits the ground and the dim glow of the street light accentuates her lean body. Fast hands find the snap of my slacks, making quick work of the fastenings.

I decide that I don't mind being her prey.

Skills

  • Lighting
  • Photography
  • Themed
  • Photoshop
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Feral with Mohawk
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