Shatterproof, I am not.
I am melancholy. Restless. Unfocused. I crave the heat of physical touch but am burned to ash by emotional connection.
I am a tempered, crackled pane, and he can see through to the inside of me.
But I am outside myself. Vacant. Empty. Dripping with icemaidenly desire, desperate to be filled. Unable to find fulfillment.
I am fragile.
But he can see my fragility, and knows he must sharpen the icicle shards of my need before he can enter any part of me.
I’m ready to shatter.
So he does not break me.
Instead, he gives me the glass.
And the fevered singe, the firy freeze of ice cold steely liquid pressing against my swollen tissues slowly diffuses my resistance. This is not a weapon, but he weilds it with the skill of swordsman. And slowly the ice surrounding my my soul begins to melt against his invasion. Exalting in the exquisite parry and thrust, I beg for more. I revel in the frigid sensations, their counter-assault assuaging the lava boiling inside me. I arch into his insistent thrust. Again. And again. Until the heat and cold combine to become fog. Then vapor.
Then crystal clear convulsive release.
I come close for a instant, but I do not crack.
I am cut for a moment, though, by the sharp shards of my own fragility. And I am shocked by the discovery that my frozen heart has the capacity ~ and the audacity ~ to bleed.
But he knows I am fragile.
He knows what I need.
So he gives me the glass.
And under his seductive ministrations, I cum…
I come apart…
But I do not shatter.