Hunger

The hunger. The pure, unadulterated hunger shakes me out of sleep once more. Untamed animal desire. Awake again at four a.m. we look at each other. While it needs feeding, it is beginning to look a little bleary-eyed. We are both exhausted, my desire and me, but continue to circle each other in the dead of night. Our own witching hour where no one else can see.

I am nothing but a silhouette. Nothing more than form, texture, flavour, smell. My pungent scent fills the space between my legs, the bed, the entire room. Fair-skinned body on white sheets begging to be soiled. Heat prickled skin, wetness overflowing. Hands, arms, fingers, all exhausted, barely able to move, manage to find their way once again.

I ache for release, for relief, for pleasure, for pain, for pleasurable pain and painful pleasure. Hooded lids heavy from sleepless nights long to see him at the foot of the bed. Long for his large, strong hands to work their way up, across and into my body. Every which way. Any which way. All the way.