FOR RAZILLAH
you pestered me for talked about a pwp. i doubt this is what you had in mind but, until i get something better to come out of my proverbial pen...
you know, i'm not even going to try and explain this. make what you will of it.
Days like these I needed nothing more than for you to fuck me. Feeling the dry burn replacing everything in my world and in my mind, feeling it gripping me 'til I couldn’t think, couldn't breathe, and the push, the hard hot slide seemed to go on forever...
The most efficient way to lose my mind was to let someone rip apart all of me. I could fall away into tiny red-gleaming droplets, bleed away and stain the skin that was so impossibly hot and soft against mine, stain the rooms I inhabited, make the air transform into sick bloody black from my hate.
I say hate, yet I mean the hatred of one given up the hope of ever finding people whose first instinct wasn't to judge you, to try and convince you of your own worthlessness. I hated, because I was so miserable I couldn't even hope to love anymore. Was about to give up on caring altogether.
But days like these, your fucking me connected me to the world. I could imagine it was my punishment, that I was paying for the death I'd willingly served, and that I might - just might - pay it in a hard enough way to accomplish forgiveness.
I wanted my hands to be clean again. I wanted to be nobody. I wanted to stop being jaded, stop wasting all my energy in desperation.
When my body served his, when I felt him push so deep inside of me I thought he'd puncture me, come through, cum so hard that the feel of it, added to my own aftershocks, almost made me faint...
I felt things. And I’m afraid it negated the whole point of the repentance.
Because, of course, the pain and the anger and the warmth only made me crave it more. It was a mix I could never pass, confessing to being screwed up enough to not see much difference between pain or pleasure.
You were the drug administered to me for the well-being of the society.
you know, i'm not even going to try and explain this. make what you will of it.
Days like these I needed nothing more than for you to fuck me. Feeling the dry burn replacing everything in my world and in my mind, feeling it gripping me 'til I couldn’t think, couldn't breathe, and the push, the hard hot slide seemed to go on forever...
The most efficient way to lose my mind was to let someone rip apart all of me. I could fall away into tiny red-gleaming droplets, bleed away and stain the skin that was so impossibly hot and soft against mine, stain the rooms I inhabited, make the air transform into sick bloody black from my hate.
I say hate, yet I mean the hatred of one given up the hope of ever finding people whose first instinct wasn't to judge you, to try and convince you of your own worthlessness. I hated, because I was so miserable I couldn't even hope to love anymore. Was about to give up on caring altogether.
But days like these, your fucking me connected me to the world. I could imagine it was my punishment, that I was paying for the death I'd willingly served, and that I might - just might - pay it in a hard enough way to accomplish forgiveness.
I wanted my hands to be clean again. I wanted to be nobody. I wanted to stop being jaded, stop wasting all my energy in desperation.
When my body served his, when I felt him push so deep inside of me I thought he'd puncture me, come through, cum so hard that the feel of it, added to my own aftershocks, almost made me faint...
I felt things. And I’m afraid it negated the whole point of the repentance.
Because, of course, the pain and the anger and the warmth only made me crave it more. It was a mix I could never pass, confessing to being screwed up enough to not see much difference between pain or pleasure.
You were the drug administered to me for the well-being of the society.