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"Fuck," Enver hisses, gripping the top of his dresser. "Harder."

"Any harder and you'll bleed, cupcake," Eliza replies from down on the floor, picking another spot on his thigh and digging into that. They've been going at it for months, and Enver's been begging for marks almost that long, always in headspace, always without much of a thought. Eliza's the one who has to think, and now that shooting has wrapped, she's ready to be a little reckless.

Forearms braced, head down, Enver groans and shifts his legs wider. There's a bottle of lubricant on the floor next to her, and Eliza rubs some around his hole before she pushes a finger in, biting right into the fleshiest part of his ass. He groans again, deep in his throat, and she has a thought towards making him whimper. She wonders if she could make him cry.

"Fuck... don't stop."

Eliza doesn't answer him, just twists another finger in and picks another spot. The marks, standing out in dark relief against his skin, form a line from just above the back of his knee. She bites once more, at the top of his ass, and then shifts to the right side.

"Jesus, Eliza," Enver mutters. "More."

"Demanding, aren't you?" Eliza teases, but she gives him another finger anyway, rubbing around for his prostate. He keeps groaning as she moves down the back of his right thigh, spacing the marks to match the other side. She imagines a kinky version of a tattoo parlor, bites for pay, designs at your request. She laughs a little, and he tries to look at her over her shoulder.

"What's funny?"

"Mmm. Nothing." One of the more fascinating things about Enver is that even when he's a strung-out mess of need, on the verge of orgasm, he can hold up a conversation. She slaps hard against the marks on his left thigh and his groan gets more desperate, higher-pitched. She grins. "Slut," she purrs, and he doesn't disagree. She pinches a mark on his ass and he hisses, bucks away and then towards her. He rubs his cock against the dresser.

"Let me give you a choice," Eliza says. "You can get off like that and I'll keep working these. Or I'll jerk you off, but I'm not touching the marks."

She knows it's a no-brainer for him, and there's a little rush of power from it. "Do it," he moans. "Like this, don't stop." She smacks his ass a few times, hard, and she picture the bruises that will blossom, blue with hints of yellow in places, deep imprints of teeth. She's not possessive about it, but she enjoys it, in an artistic sense. More directly, she enjoys the way he spasms underneath her when he's so high on the pain that he forgets that it's a bad idea to rub your dick against laminated wood, forgets everything but the pain and her fingers and the smack of her palm and the memory of her teeth. She puts her mouth to his neck and gives him a more personal souvenir, open lips wetting the skin and then a hard, brutal bite as she grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes deep into the muscle and rubs hard inside his body. He cries out as he comes, like she had hoped, wordless and desperate, mouth open and eyes closed. She strokes his skin as she comes down, guides him to the bed. She traces the lines of pain with gentle fingers, ghosts her lips over his nape and soothes him until he sleeps.