No one covers me the way he does. The storm of him rolls over my horizon, dark boiling banks of cloud that blot out the sun. His energy seethes, coils, writhes, and serrated forks of lightning bleach the world to white in singular, blinding flashes. The glint of an eye, the spark of a smile that isn’t. The tongue that wets his lips in anticipation of the first strike.
No one holds me like he does. Face down, flat against the bed. His hands, claws, encircle my wrists, mnemonic bonds of ownership. Reminders, as if I had need of them, of who I am in his eyes, in his presence, in his arms.
I always struggle. Not hard, but I do. If I were just to lie still and acquiescent, things would go easier for me. I know this so well, and yet I can’t. Instinct takes over, rebels against the looming prospect of the onslaught, the temporary disassembly of self.
He will devour me. Not with his mouth but with every cell of his body. He traps me in the tightening of his sinews, in the coil of his muscle, in the black-holed hunger of his desire to take me in and colonize my flesh. And so, for an instant, before resignation takes over, I panic, like the prey I am. Then I accept.
My predator. My shark-skinned assassin. Drinker of tears. No one destroys me the way he does. I believe I’ve built my defenses with such cleverness and care, but I’m wrong. Every time. No one else knows the location of my many hidden hinges, the load-bearing walls of my structural integrity. He knows the perfect places to lay the charges and take down my artifice, my edifice, with such elegant economy.
But this is all so abstract, isn’t it? Where’s the meat, the details, the arterial spray? You want the arena, the sand, the sweat, the blood. As you read, you roar for the killing blow. Where’s the splayed cunt? Where’s the pounding cock? Where’s the lash, the lick, the suck, the spray, the slit, the spasm, the bruises? Where the fuck is the fountain of flaming lust?
I cannot give you that.
That is mine.