I’ve been craving desire, of a particular kind. My body is always almost riled up, commanding almost, my brain to go ahead with that date, or that late night text that inadvertently some past partner sends. But I crave more than just the momentarily respite, where it’s all about the act, and the release, and everything which precedes it. And after that, radio silence.
I crave thoughts and ideas and feelings that are so fleeting in nature, that they go out of your grasp if you even dare mention it. The desire to stroke my partner’s hair, warm her up on a cold night by pulling her closer to me and wrap her legs around me. Of kissing the bruises I gave her. Of taking her into the shower after I’m done using her as a harlot, and then cherish her like a lover. To wash her body, to dry her up and carry her in. To make her count my heartbeat, just like she counts the spankings I was giving her. Of laying together, in silence, except the rumbling of the air conditioner, and the heat between our bodies. My mind mindlessly wandering, thinking about everything and nothing, until my eyes go to her face, blissful and rising with my chest after every breath that I take. I look into her eyes, and she looks into mine. And that’s all it took, she can feel my cock nestled against her stomach growing. And that’s all it took for her, her breath quickens, and I just need to pry my fingers down into her slit, to find it emanating heat. My mouth salivates, I need to taste her. And I do. And her taste is exquisite. And what follows next is up for debate. We make love. Or I use her body and she lets me, with gleeful abandon. Or it’s a whore indulging the requests of her favourite customer. Or it’s a dominant with his submissive.
If there was anyone watching, they’d have their own take of it. But what I and her were doing, is only something that I and her know. It’s a house with a white picket fence, and lots of windows, population 2. And what happens in this house, only we know. We can try put labels on it, but it’s as unique as a snowflake. Never existed before. Never to exist again.
I crave these desires. Urges are plentiful, desires are few. And all of this, a casual passerby won’t be able to make sense of. Beneath my gaze, and the polite smile, and the very prim behaviour, lies a devious satyr, whose thirst can never be quenched. But when the woman sees me, she’ll the satyr. And as we meet, and we dance the exquisite dance, like the ravaging flow of a river, pain and pleasure shall wash over her, wave after wave, until all the remains are those sensations and nothing else. And the knowledge that I exist, and I’m besides her. And I’m not going anywhere.
Until then, I’ll crave these desires. While politely declining requests, and gently admonishing my body, for it’s satyr like drive.
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