There's a boy pressed under the solid weight of Jensen's hips, wiggling body, eager for freedom. The stench of him is impure, a pedophilacs wet dream. He can shreak under the press and pull of a sharp knife with just the right dissonance to sends sparks right into Jensens cock. It feels like a pulse, his heart reaching out.
There's a boy, a hint of newly born puberty clinging to his body. Soft, milk-chocolate curls, just enough to count, and a voice so fragile - hummingbird sweet - that with all of Jensen's moral control, he still finds himself constricting the poor child, inching his way into his throat. “Hush, my darling, my sinful boy, you want this just as much as I do. I can feel it. Here.” And he presses his palm over a delicacy so foreign, he fears if he closes his eyes, this dream preteen will slip, right between all he thought he could handle.
Beneath him is a kid set for struggle, a muffled gasp under the silk wet of his tongue, and Jensen closes his murdering eyes and just this once, tries not to hear the little one cry.
“Oh, sweetheart, you are doing so good, letting me feed you. Taking it all. There’s a good boy. You’re alright, hush. Hush.”
The silence returned sounds like danger, like someone fixing for a kill.
There’s a boy, kissed with fragments of blood, but anchored by a pair of chapped lips, foreign hands, a body he didn’t want to know.
Small fingers fold over a naked back, touching with question. If he surrenders long enough, maybe this will start to feel like love.