I feel the pull of lies and the promise of sighs. Heat washes over what's left of my skin. The sound is your breath, your life, deafening in its rapid, shallow repetition. You burn. I cry out, the sudden expression a vital, growling attack on your concentration. The moment draws out, speeds up, loops around until I become nothing. A vessel built to cradle you, no purpose beyond the skill born into my fingers, my lips, my cunt. I play you as you play a song, the crescendo building slowly into a cacophony of screams and sighs. The climax leaves us shuddering, breathless.
In the denouement, I avoid your eyes. I was made for this - made for the wanting, the fucking. After, I'm unsure of myself, unsure of my worth in the world of the clothed and disguised. The wanting is my home. The needing is my serenity. Men see me, wonder, shrug it off. Societal norms be damned, they all want the crush of my flesh and the soft caress of my lips. They wonder: can she do as she claims? All the glances, half toned suggestions, barely felt fingertips. I'm a force of nature, a maddening torment and a forbidden desire.
After the brush with death and faith, I return to my solitary moments and think - fuck them all, fuck them until they cannot take any more. Fuck them them until they scream my name and beg for the moment to end. Fuck them into eternity, it's what you were made for.